


Rise of Angmar

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Kings, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 69,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="label">The sequel to</span><span class="label"> Gathering of the Nine, it</span> is now the Third Age of Middle-Earth, the One Ring is lost, and Sauron is weakened. The Nazgul must go into hiding or be destroyed by the victorious Last Alliance. But vigilance cannot be maintained eternally, and evil in the form of Angmar returns, headed by the Morgoth-possessed Witch-King and his not-so-faithful lieutenant Khamul, who finds herself attracting all sorts of attention, from all the wrong people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"I like not this land," Ciryon said, glancing into the dark trees. The branches seemed to reach out towards him, trying to drag him into the depths of the forest.  
"Sauron is defeated," Aratan said with a laugh. "Evil is banished from these lands. We have nothing to fear."  
"I still think we should have avoided this place."  
"This is the quickest way to Rivendell," Isildur said. The One Ring bounced on his breastplate, glittering malevolently.  
"We have sacrificed safety for speed," Ciryon muttered, keeping one hand on his sword.  
"There are still goblins in the Misty Mountains," Elendur said, glancing around. "Father, we should not have come this way."  
"Valandil and my wife wait for us in Rivendell," Isildur said. "I will not bear to be parted from them any longer. Besides, who knows what the treacherous elves may be up to?" As he spoke, his hand caressed the Ring.  
Elendur frowned, watching his father with a growing fear in his heart.  
"I hear horses!" Ciryon shouted, gesturing to behind the small force.   
Snarling a curse, Isildur barked orders and drew his sword.   
"Orcs!" Aratan shouted, setting an arrow to his bowstring.   
"I knew we should not have come this way," Ciryon muttered, drawing his bow as well.   
"No time for recriminations!" Elendur shouted. "There are many of them!"  
An orc arrow pierced the armor of a soldier and he fell with a ghastly scream.  
Ciryon's eyes narrowed as the orcs appeared, waving their weapons and shouting guttural battle cries.  
"This is no accident," he hissed. "Nor a raiding party. This is a trap!"  
"Set by whom?" Elendur asked. "I fear we will not learn that answer."  
The orcs broke on the men of Numenor like water on rock. They retreated moments later, carrying off several soldiers with them.  
"A strange strategy," Elendur said. "Normally we would be in a pitched battle now."  
"They are cunning, these orcs," Isildur said. "They fight but for a few moments, then drag our comrades away."  
"Not typical behavior," Ciryon said. "It is the work of another power."  
"Sauron is defeated!" Isildur snarled. "Would you question the work of your grandfather?"  
"No," Ciryon said. "But there are other powers in the world besides that of the fallen Maia."  
The orcs broke upon the soldiers again and there was a moment of fierce fighting before they retreated once more.  
"Aratan, what think you of our chances?" Ciryon asked, glancing to where his brother had stood only moments before. He was there no longer.   
"There," Elendur whispered, pointing to where a torn body lay some ten feet away. "He was dragged away by the orcs."  
"And we shall all share his fate," Ciryon said. "Father! How many horses do we have?"  
Isildur's face was pale as he looked at the body of his son. "Not enough," he whispered.  
"We cannot survive this!"  
"We cannot flee either!"  
"We must try!"  
The orcs surged forth again and the men of Numenor just barely managed to beat them back. Ciryon was left with a deep gash in his side, and Elendur was barely able to stand.  
"There are only a dozen of us left!" Elendur shouted. "We must flee!"  
Before the orcs could attack again, the remainder of Isildur's force leapt onto the nearest horses and spurred them down the road, away from the orcs.  
"They are following us!" Ciryon called, glancing behind them.  
A strangled scream came from a soldier as an orc dropped out of a tree and dragged him from his saddle.  
"Orcs in trees!" Elendur shouted.   
"This is hopeless," Ciryon whispered. "Hopeless. We cannot possibly win."  
"Then here is what we must do," Elendur said. "The shards of Narsil and the One Ring must be preserved at all costs."  
"Father carries them both."   
Elendur nodded, grief in his eyes. "Father!" he called. "I fear we must ask a thing of you that you will not like at all."  
"What is it?" Isildur asked, despair evident in his face. "Aratan has been slain before my eyes, and I was as helpless to save him as I was to save Elendil or Anarion before him."  
"Flee, Father!" Elendur begged.  
"What?"   
"You are the High King of Arnor and Gondor! You carry the shards of Narsil and the One Ring! You must escape!"  
"No! Take them and save yourselves," Isildur said, tossing the package that carried the shards of the sword to Ciryon.   
"And the One Ring?" Elendur asked quietly.  
Isildur's hand closed around it, but he found he could not tear it from its chain. He closed his eyes. "I cannot," he said.  
"Then flee! The orcs draw near and I sense a darker power with them!"  
Giving his sons an agonized glance, Isildur turned and urged his horse further down the road.  
"Are we truly the only ones left?" Elendur asked, looking around.  
"It would seem so," Ciryon said. He smiled bitterly. "I survive the Last Alliance only to find myself slain on my way home."  
"Not in vain though," Elendur said. "It will not be in vain."  
It had seemed that there were hundreds of orcs, but in truth there were only a little less than a dozen. Quickly and efficiently, the two sons of Isildur slew the lot, but were left battered and dazed for their troubles.  
"It comes," Ciryon hissed. "The creature that started all this."  
"I would congratulate them on an excellent trap, save that it was on us that it was sprung," Elendur said.  
A black horse thundered down the road. There was a flash of steel and Ciryon fell to the ground. Before Elendur even knew his brother was dead, his own life was ended with a single slice of a sword. Without even pausing, the horse continued on, as the rider drew a bow and fitted a single arrow to the string.  
The horse seemed to know no fatigue and as Isildur's horse flagged ahead, the rider's black horse continued on, gaining by the second.  
"No!" Isildur shouted, knowing what the rider's approach meant. "My sons! No!"   
The rider did not speak, but slowly drew back the bow, taking careful aim.  
"It shall not be in vain," Isildur whispered, leaping from his horse. He tore the One Ring from its chain and placed it on his finger. Instantly, the world turned to shadow.  
Not pausing to consider this strange turn of events, Isildur dashed from the road and towards the Gladden River, intending to swim to safety.  
But as he dove into the icy cold waters, the crystal clear water suddenly became sharper, the sandy riverbed more colorful. The One Ring had slipped from his hand and was now floating down the river, taunting him as it glittered and promised safety, if only he could reach it.  
Stretching out his hand towards his salvation, Isildur gasped in sudden pain as an arrow embedded itself in his back. Then another, and then another. And so died the last High King of Arnor and Gondor, and his body was swept down the river, never to be found.  
The rider watched dispassionately as Isildur was swept away downriver, before turning their horse back to the slaughter on the road.   
"A worthy pair of adversaries," they commented as they reached Elendur and Ciryon. The second son of Isildur was still alive, to the rider's surprise, and groped feebly for a package wrapped in a cloak.  
"Eh, what's this?" the rider asked, picking up the package and examining it.  
"Rivendell," Ciryon gasped with his last breath. "Take it to Rivendell." His head fell to the ground and he lay as still as all the orcs and men in the road.  
"Rivendell, huh?" the rider commented, looking at the package closely. "Ah, the shards of Narsil. I thought as much. I haven't got a use for them. My only purpose today was the destruction of Elendil's heir. Isildur insulted me for the last time."  
Pulling off her hood and shaking her hair out, Khamul whistled for her horse and leapt back up on the black steed, nudging it towards Rivendell. "One good turn deserves another," she said with a smirk.


	2. Imladris

Something wicked this way comes, Elrond thought, touching the elf ring Vilya for assurance. I will bar its way to Imladris, or fall here myself.  
A lone black horse cautiously approached the edge of the valley.  
"Halt!" Elrond called out. "State your purpose!"  
"I bring a gift for the House of Elendil!" the rider called out. A woman, Elrond thought in surprise.  
"Very well," the former herald said, approaching the horse warily. I dare not trust her, he thought. I do not care if she is Varda herself. Let her prove her words.  
The rider dismounted and walked slowly towards Elrond, stopping a few feet from the elflord. She carried a packaged wrapped in a cloak under her arm.  
"What is it?" Elrond asked.  
"See for yourself," the rider said, opening it with a flourish.  
Elrond could not contain a cry of dismay. The shards of Narsil lay there, shining faintly in the daylight.  
"They all died," the rider said, her eyes shining in delight.  
"Servant of Sauron," Elrond cursed her.   
"Ah, you don't need to worry about the return of the Dark Lord…yet," the rider said, smiling. "I found no One Ring there. But I slew Isildur myself. Likely he and the Ring are taking their last journey together down the Anduin. Neither you nor I will ever see it again."  
"You are one of the Nazgul," Elrond said, glaring balefully at her. "You are supposed to be Sauron's most loyal servants. Why do you not search ceaselessly for the Ring?"  
The rider shrugged. "I'd prefer to use my immortality and invulnerability to my own gains for a while."  
"Treachery," Elrond hissed.  
"Ah, so you'd prefer Sauron rising up and destroying the world?" the rider asked, raising an eyebrow.  
Elrond cursed, but snatched the shards of Narsil from the Nazgul. "Go back to the darkness," he hissed.  
"I intend to," the Nazgul said. "Enjoy your time of peace, elflord! It won't last for long!"


	3. Into Hiding

"Greenwood is under the sway of the elves," Vorea said, pointing to the mighty forest. "Both Gondor and Arnor are strong. Gondor controls very nearly all of southern Middle-Earth. Mordor is a vassal of Gondor, and much of Harad is ruled by them as well. Khand has taken no interest in the events."  
"Rhun?" Morion asked.  
"They trade with Gondor," Metima said bitterly, stung by the betrayal of her people.  
"My people are doing just fine," Yanta said, smiling.   
"Isildur damned them," Morion said.  
"Eh?"  
"He called on them to fight with him in the Last Alliance. They refused, and so he damned them."  
"That's a shame," Yanta muttered. She made a mental note to check on the people of Harrowdale sometime soon.  
"What else, Vorea?"   
"The elves under Cirdan still control Lindon, and the dwarves hold onto Khazad-Dum."  
"In other words, there is no land in Middle-Earth safe for us," Morion said.  
"Yes, that would be an apt assesment," Vorea said, nodding.  
Morion sighed. "There must be somewhere," he said, scanning the map.  
"I have killed Isildur, three of his sons, and insulted the master of Imladris!" Khamul called as she walked into the small abandoned house that was serving as the headquarters for the ringbearers.  
"I'm not surprised," Morion said. "I was sure you'd show up eventually."  
"You killed Isildur?" Ancalime gasped.  
Khamul nodded.   
"And Elrond didn't try to kill you?" Yanta asked.  
"He was distraught," Khamul said. "I gave him the shards of Narsil as proof of our victory."  
"A great blow for the land," Morion said. "But not great enough. Arnor and Gondor will still thrive. Meneldil rules Gondor now, and Valandil – though still a child – will now rule Arnor, through his mother as regent, I assume."  
"Could we corrupt them?" Metima asked.  
"Possible, but unlikely. They are as Numenor in its early days: pure, strong, and thoroughly against evil. But, like Numenor, they will fall eventually."  
"And then we will strike!" Aica hissed.  
"Exactly," Morion said.  
"In the meantime though, we must find a safe haven," Vorea said.  
Khamul glanced over the map. "Who lives there?" she asked, pointing to the north of Middle-Earth.  
"The snow-men," Vorea said. "But they live mainly around the Ice Bay of Forochel. The other lands are relatively uninhabited."  
Khamul grimaced. "Ice Bay," she muttered.   
"Uninhabited?" Morion asked, grinning. "I think we've found ourselves a hiding spot," he said.  
*  
It was cold, bitterly so. Without the protection of the One Ring, the ringbearers shivered in the cold, except for Yanta, who smiled and enjoyed the barren wasteland.   
"I don't like this place," Khamul grumbled. "We'd have had better luck in Mordor."  
"What? Fighting off Gondorian soldiers every few minutes?" Morion asked, almost laughing. "At least we're safe here."  
"Safe," Khamul muttered.   
"Where do we go from here?" Ceure asked.   
"Nowhere," Morion said. "Forodwaith is our new home, until something changes."  
"I hope something changes soon," Ceure said, grimacing.  
"We are not mortal, but neither are we Valar," Vorea said. "We need shelter. This land is a wicked place."  
"I can feel it in my bones," Morion whispered. "This used to be Morgoth's land in the First Age."  
"All the more reason to leave," Khamul said.  
"And where would you have us go?"   
"Somewhere that's not here," Khamul said. "Greenwood. It's immense, and the elves wouldn't find us."  
"We would be caught and killed within moments," Morion said. "The elves are no fools and are still stinging from the bitter part they played in the Last Alliance."  
"In time it may prove to be a useful sanctuary," Vorea said. "Once the wood elves have relaxed their guard."  
"So, here we are at Forodwaith then," Khamul said, looking up into the sky. It looked like it was about to snow. She desperately hoped it didn't.


	4. Parting Ways

With a little work, and a lot of roaming the land, the nine ringbearers finally had set up a building large enough to accomadate them all.   
"It's not very pretty, but it's warm," Ceure said, warming her hands by the fire.   
"And it's shelter against that," Khamul said, gesturing outside where a fierce blizzard raged.   
"So we're safe now," Morion said. "And we've got shelter. I think the question that's on everyone's mind is 'what to do now'?"  
"Wait?" Khamul guessed.  
Morion nodded. "It has been five years since the victory of the Last Alliance. Five years since the fall of Sauron. It has not been forgotten. It will take centuries for Middle-Earth to be lulled into a state of content."  
"And then we strike," Aica hissed, tossing a knife and catching it by the handle, the blade gleaming.  
"Exactly," Morion said. "In the meantime, we need to travel to the greatest powerrs in these realms and sow a bit of havoc in them."  
Khamul grinned. "Make things not work as smoothly as some might like?" she guessed. "Instigate a small rebellion? Spread dissent among the people?"  
Morion nodded. "Vorea, if you would travel to Gondor, I think you would fit in best there."  
"Aye, I would," Vorea said. "But I would still stick out. Better to have a Numenorean go, I think."  
"That would be me," Ceure said with a sigh. No one even thought about Ancalime. "I doubt another old lady would be noticed there."  
"And then we need someone in Arnor," Morion said, glancing around. "Any volunteers?"  
"Are you saying any volunteers, or any competant volunteers?" Aica asked. "We'd sure join up," she said, gesturing to her brother and herself, "but I don't know if you'd want us."  
"I think you would fit right in in Arnor," Morion said. "If you could depart as soon as possible, all three of you, it would be beneficial to have someone in these lands from the beginning."  
"Got it," Aica said.  
"I understand," Ceure said, nodding.  
"And what about the rest of us?" Khamul asked. "Any plans for us, eh?"  
"No, not really," Morion said. "We're neither elves nor dwarves so we can't do any spying on them."  
Khamul sighed. "Years," she predicted. "I'll spend years here, wasting away until I do become a wraith."  
"Things may change," Morion said.  
"No, they won't. This is the golden age of those kingdoms. We aren't going to find anything for centuries at least."  
"Then we'll get to know Forodwaith quite well."  
*  
Years and years passed. It was a terrible time for Khamul, who would spend months wandering the lands of Forodwaith, much as she had in Mordor, but finding nothing but a barren wasteland. One time she tracked a party of dwarves from their stronghold in the Misty Mountains all the way to near Moria, but learned nothing profitable from it.  
"I can't take this anymore!" she exclaimed one morning, leaping to her feet and throwing on her cloak. "I need to get out of here!"  
"Where are you going?" Morion asked.   
"What year is it and who's king where?"  
"It is the year one hundred and forty something, Anardil reigns in Gondor, and Valandil is still the king of Arnor."  
"This is madness!" Khamul exclaimed. "There must be something to bring about the end of these lands!"  
"Do not do anything rash," Morion hissed.  
"I don't care," Khamul snarled, walking out of the building.  
She trudged across Forodwaith for days, months, maybe even years, until finally she stood at the foothills of Gundabad, the northernmost Misty Mountain. Who controls it now? she wondered. The dwarves, who revere it as sacred, or the orcs? Either way, I doubt they'll be friendly.  
Hesitating only a moment, Khamul looked further to the east and strode away toward the mysterious lands of eastern Middle-Earth.  
The world was still recovering from the Last Alliance and Khamul encountered no outposts, no soldiers, not even a single caravan. It was as if she was walking through a world in which she was the only person.  
When the Lonely Mountain was a distant memory, Khamul sat down on a small rock and looked around.   
"Well," she muttered, "it seems I've come a long way."  
It was an understatement of the grandest proportions. Her legs did not ache, she was not hungry nor thirsty, and yet she had walked for thousands of miles. And all without rest? Khamul considered this. Yes, it had been all without rest. Her anger and pent-up frustration had fueled her mammoth walk.  
"And where shall I go from here?" Khamul mused, looking this way and that. With a shrug, she stood up again and continued walking towards the east.   
She entered a land where the wind blew fiercly across flat plains, but she passed through that, drawing her black cowl up over her head. Then the land became desolate, with not a stir in the air. There was nothing living here, for there was no water nor plants of any sort. It was a terrible land, and utterly deserted, and Khamul found that she liked the emptiness of it.  
Having long ago lost count of the days she had been gone, Khamul had no idea how long it had been since her departure when she saw the next living person. In this uttermost east, there was no change of seasons. Nothing changed here save for the sun and the moon rising and setting behind a layer of dusty clouds.  
Nevertheless, in this most unlikely of places, Khamul ran across a man alone in the wasteland. He was crouched over the dirt, which seemed more than a little strange to Khamul.  
"You there!" she shouted, trying to get a better look at what he was doing. "What in the name of the Valar are you doing?"  
The man looked up. He had the look of someone who has lost something dear to their heart. Tears streaked his face, the only moisture for miles and miles. He looked like a broken soul.  
Dangerous, Khamul thought, letting her hand fall to rest on her sword. Grief-stricken folk don't know how to take a friendly comment.  
"I mean no harm to you," the man said. He had a strange way of talking. It irritated Khamul. There was also an unplaceable accent in his voice, and despite all her travels she could not determine from where the man had come from.  
"I don't care," Khamul said. "If you meant harm, I'd cut you down where you knelt. What are you doing?"  
"Mourning the loss of this great land," the man said, looking around.  
"Oh, you're insane," Khamul said. "I'm so sorry I didn't notice immediately. I'll just leave you be then. Don't want to disturb your mad reveries."  
"No!" the man shouted, throwing himself around her knees. "Please, I beg of you! Don't leave me here! I can't take it anymore! All I see is wasteland! This is not the land I was born in! It is a terror! A sham! It is a wasteland!"  
"What'd it look like when you were born here?" Khamul asked. He must be insane. Who or what could possibly live in a place like this?  
"A green land," the man whispered, his eyes glazing over slightly. "A land of forests and rushing rivers. It was a land to die for."  
"Likely that's just what happened," Khamul said. "And then, just like with the Brown Lands, it rotted from the battles."  
"I do not know what happened," the man said. "I have been away for many long years."  
Khamul snorted. "Clearly you don't know who you're talking to. I've been wandering this land since the Second Age."  
"What?" the man asked.  
"Second Age? You know that? The one that came after the First Age?"  
"I do not understand."  
Khamul sighed. "Look, I don't have time to trade words with a madman. Let go of my leg or I'll cut off your arms."  
"Take me with you," the man pleaded.  
"I don't know where I'm going, I don't know how long you'd survive, and dead bodies are inconvenient."  
"You do not have to worry about me. I have lived here for six months."  
Khamul raised an eyebrow. "How?" she asked.  
The man shrugged. "The Valar," he said, looking up.  
"You're mad."  
"Take me with you!"   
Khamul sighed. "I will regret this the rest of my days," she muttered. "Get up. Come on. I don't know where I'm going, but if we run into trouble I can always throw you into a dragon's mouth."  
"Thank you!" the man gasped. He might've hugged her, but Khamul sidestepped away and shot him a warning glare.


	5. First Age Relic

Together they walked for many more months, not speaking for days at a time. Khamul found that she could still appreciate the emptiness of the wasteland while at the same time having a person to talk to in case she ever felt in need of it.   
"You were here six months, you say?" she asked one day.   
"Yes," the man said. He still hadn't deigned to give his name, and so neither had Khamul.  
"How'd you get here?"  
"The Valar," the man said.  
Khamul sighed. "If we're going to travel together, we need to agree on a set of rules," she said. "This includes no initiating conversation with me, and not being a Valar-worshiping freak. Understand?"  
"They sent me here," the man said.  
"Why would they do that? What did you do to deserve it?"  
The man looked puzzled for a moment, then he shrugged. "Can we really question the ways of the Valar?" he asked.  
"Yes, we can," Khamul said. "And we can find them wanting."  
"I see that we do not see to eye on this matter," the man said. "What of your history, lady? I see that you are not from these lands. Are you an Easterling?"  
"I am a proud Haradrim," Khamul said. "Not some pathetic Easterling."  
The man nodded. "Things have changed," he said.  
"I'm sure," Khamul said.  
"Tell me of the western lands. What occurs? Who rules in the north?"  
Khamul snorted. "Unless he's died by now – and everyone knows he should be dead already – Valandil's king of Arnor."  
The man was momentarily thrown by this, but then nodded. "He is a wise elf, I am sure," he said.  
"I don't know what universe you're living in," Khamul said, "but Valandil, son of Isildur, is most definitely not an elf."  
"He is a Man?"  
"Yes."  
The man seemed very surprised by this. "But he is king of the north."  
"Yes. Arnor. He is High King of Arnor, and Gondor, at least, he should be. That was Isildur's intention, I believe."  
"Could you explain to me what occurred to set up this Valandil as king of Arnor?"  
Khamul sighed. "Elendil and Gil-galad killed Sauron, there was a horrible, tragic accident involving Isildur and three of his sons getting brutally murdered, and so Valandil became king. Understand?"  
"Why is Gil-galad not king?"  
"Because he's dead!" Khamul yelled. "Have you been living under a rock?"  
"The Valar dropped me here," the man said. "Can you not comprehend that? And what is it that you are saying? Gil-galad cannot be dead!"  
"Yes, he's dead! Sauron incinerated him like a chicken! He's dead!"  
"That's not possible."  
"It's entirely possible! Have the Valar neglected to properly inform their unfortunate victims before they drop them in Middle-Earth? What are you anyway? A really stupid divine messenger? A prophet maybe? Well, by all means, preach away!"  
"I am no prophet!" the man snarled. "Why the Valar chose to grace me with dropping me here, in the middle of nowhere, I do not know! But I do know that they are wise beyond all mortal comprehension! None can know their true purpose!"  
Her rage subsiding into cold calculation, Khamul considered the man. He doesn't know about Arnor, she thought, or any of the Third Age realms, for that matter. "What do you think about Numenor?" she asked.  
"Eh? What is that?" the man asked.  
Ah, so he's ignorant of the entire Second Age as well, Khamul thought, her eyes narrowing. "Sauron? Do you know of him?"  
"Of course," the man snorted. "He is Morgoth's lieutenant."  
Aha! First Age imbecile. Now…what happened? "Beren and Luthien," Khamul said. "Great heroes, do you think?"  
"Of course!" the man snapped. "What are you doing? Do you think I'm mad?"  
"Not anymore," Khamul said. Narrows that down a bit. "And Morgoth, what do you ever think became of him?"  
The man shrugged. "I do not know," he said. "I would assume the land is not under his command since you spoke of Sauron as the great power here."  
"Great fallen power," Khamul said. After the Silmaril snatchers, but before the War of Wrath, she thought. "Gondolin," she said. "Such a tragedy."  
"Indeed," the man said. "I can only pray the survivors escaped. Do you know what occurred?" he asked.  
Khamul didn't answer, as she was busy skimming through her mental list of fallen heroes of Gondolin. Turgon? she thought, looking at the man. No, he doesn't look like a king. But all the heroes of Gondolin were elves! Is he…?  
"Are you an elf?" she asked.  
"Yes," the man said, nodding.  
If he's willing to answer that question, I might as well just ask it, Khamul thought. "What's your name?" she asked.  
"Glorfindel," the man said. "Why do you care?"  
"You killed a balrog," Khamul said. "Impressive."  
"I did it then?" Glorfindel asked, surprised. "I wasn't sure if it was dead. I myself died, I believe."  
"And yet the Valar sent you back," Khamul said. "Any particular reason?"  
"I do not know," Glorfindel said, looking up into the sky. "They must have had a reason to send me back here. This was, in the days of old, Cuivienen, the place where the elves woke up."  
"Fascinating," Khamul said. "What a shame it has come to nothing."  
"Indeed," Glorfindel whispered sadly. "Who are you?" he asked, looking sharply at Khamul. "I like not at all the way you spoke of Sauron."  
"My name is Khamul," she said. "Strangely enough, I don't care if you like how I speak about Sauron. In case you haven't noticed, elf, I have a sword. You barely have the clothes on your back."  
Glorfindel glared at her. "I would say you are a servant of that dark lord, but why would you let me live?"  
"I'm asking myself that question right now," Khamul said. I should kill him, she thought. Send him back to Mandos.   
"It is up to the conscious of your own heart, Khamul," Glorfindel said. "Kill me in cold blood, or let me live."  
"I have murdered better men than you," Khamul hissed. I should kill him, she thought. Just like I should have killed Elendil. But that small mercy ended up saving me. He sent me the boat when there were none other in Numenor. He saved my life. Will it work the same way with Glorfindel?   
"You're an elflord of great renown then," Khamul said. "If you were back in the western lands of Middle-Earth, what would you do?"  
"I would find a stronghold of my people and dwell there, learning the ways of this strange new world," Glorfindel answered honestly. "And then I would strive to defeat you and your evil master."  
"You can tell I'm with Sauron?" Khamul asked.  
"It is not difficult. That ring you wear reeks of the dark powers."  
Khamul nodded. "If I spared your life," she said, "would you feel indebted to me?"  
Glorfindel hesitated. "You are evil," he said, "yet you would have spared me and saved me from this wasteland. I…I fear that I would."  
"So if I were to ever need your help, you would grant it."  
"It depends," Glorfindel said warily. "I would not murder for you, nor spy, nor tell you anything that could change the fate of the world."  
"But apart from that?"  
Glorfindel shrugged. "I suppose so," he said. "I do not like making a bargain with evil though."  
"I think you'd like dying a second time even less," Khamul said.   
"That is true," Glorfindel admitted.   
"Good," Khamul said with a grin. "It seems we have come to an accord."


	6. The Dragon's Lair

Glorfindel talked little about his past in Gondolin, but Khamul hadn't expected him to say much. He would just be talking to a sworn enemy after all.   
Two months after the revelation that Glorfindel was a reincarnated elf from the First Age, Khamul looked into the east and saw mountains rising in the distance.  
"It seems there's something in these lands after all," she muttered.   
"You think it is wise to head toward them?" Glorfindel asked.  
"I don't know if it's wise or not, but we're going there," Khamul said. "I've never held much stock by wisdom anyway."  
The flat lands of the east deceived the true distance to the mountains, and it took the pair a week to reach them.   
"I have never heard of such mountains," Glorfindel said, gazing at the towering behemoths.  
"We've traveled farther than any mapmaker," Khamul said, glancing into cracks in the mountainside for water or plants. "Although I don't think these're any different from the rest of the land. There's no food or water here."  
"This land is desolate," Glorfindel said. "We should return to the west."  
"In time, in time," Khamul said. "Ah! Here's a cave!" she said, grinning.   
Glorfindel approached it warily, glancing into the dark mouth. "It does not seem safe," he said.  
"There isn't an animal for a thousand leagues," Khamul said. "Likely this is just another wasteland, only underground this time."  
"There are dangerous things in the deep places of the world."  
"So I've heard," Khamul said, walking into the cave, hand on her sword. "But I don't see anything."  
Glorfindel followed her into the cave, looking around with apprehension. "This is a very ancient place," he said. "It has stood since the First Age. I fear it is part of the Iron Mountains, though how it escaped the great destruction you say was wrought, I do not know."  
"And maybe there's gold in here then," Khamul said. "The Iron Mountains were part of Morgoth's realm, and he wasn't a poor Vala, I think."  
Glorfindel sighed. "Can we not turn back? Do you not wish to know what happens in your world?"  
"This is my world," Khamul said. "All of it. From the furthest reaches of the east to the uttermost west. It all belongs to me and mine."  
Glorfindel muttered about the arrogance of humans, but did not argue with her.   
They descended for many days, following the cave through the utter and complete darkness. To Khamul's great amusement, Glorfindel gave off a faint golden glow, rendering a torch unnecessary.  
"And the best part is," she said, "you'll attract any monsters in here. They'll eat you and not me."  
"I would appreciate it if you killed them before they devoured me."  
Khamul shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "If you're still an asset."  
"And if I am a liability?"  
"Then you'd be dead already."  
The tunnel eventually widened into a mammoth cavern. Even Glorfindel's glow couldn't pierce the darkness of the cavern's roof, so Khamul could only guess how high it was. And, for that matter, how large it was. It could have been as much as half a league in diameter.   
"We should leave," Glorfindel said abruptly.  
"It would take days to get out of here," Khamul said. "Besides, what's the problem?"  
"I can smell dragon here."  
"Eh?" Khamul asked, sniffing the air. "Do dragons smell like dust?"  
"You are a mortal, you would not know. We need to leave! Listen to me, Haradrim!"  
"Say that again as an insult, and I'll break your neck!" Khamul threatened.  
A creaking noise stopped the growing argument.   
The two whirled around and stared in horror as Glorfindel's light bounced off red-gold scales as an immense snout emerged from another tunnel emptying into the cavern.  
"I smell elf-flesh," the dragon hissed in glee. "And I smell flesh of darkness. Not as tasty, but not powerful. Your master has fallen, little servant. I can eat you now!"  
Khamul didn't waste another moment staring at the creature before racing back the way they had come. Glorfindel wasn't far behind her.  
"Balrog slayer, ha!" she snorted.  
"There is a difference between a balrog and a dragon," the elf gasped.  
"What's that then?  
"Dragons are much larger."  
The dragon gave a great roar and thundered down the tunnel after them, breaking off stalctites and stalagmites alike. Huge chunks of rock rained down behind Khamul, and she dared not slow down for a moment.  
"Is it going to flame us?" she asked.  
"Probably," Glorfindel said.  
"Ever fought a dragon before?"  
"No."  
"How do you do it?"  
"Usually they have a soft underbelly," Glorfindel said. "Ah! I have an idea!"  
"What is it?"  
"I shall distract the dragon while you dive beneath it and stab it."  
"Where's it's heart?"  
"Left side, same as all things."  
Khamul nodded. "Good plan," she said. "You get incinerated, I get crushed."  
"It is already gaining on us. In a matter of minutes it will catch up with us, unless it decides to flame us instead."  
"All right, fine, we'll do it your way," Khamul said. "Distract the great scaly bastard then!"  
"Ai! Over here!" Glorfindel shouted, waving his arms. The glow seemed to intensify, catching the dragon's eye.   
"I see you, little elf!" the monster roared, lunging towards him.  
Khamul ran beneath the dragon, surprised that she had no need to crouch or crawl. The distance from the tunnel floor to the dragon's stomach was at least six feet.   
"Aha!" Khamul muttered, running along underneath the dragon. She was now positioned squarely below the dragon's left breast. "Take that you monster!" she snarled, plunging her sword upwards.  
The dragon snarled in irritation, but continued. To Khamul's horror, she saw that her strike had only knocked off some gems that had been stuck to the wyrm's skin. Again and again she struck, but when she had finally cleared a patch of bare skin, a flick of the dragon's claws threw her away from her target.  
"I shall eat you alive for this!" the dragon snarled.   
"No, wait!" Khamul exclaimed. Dragons are intelligent creatures, she remembered. Perhaps we can bargain with it. "Do you not want more wealth and gold?" she asked.  
The dragon stopped its advance. "Yes," it said warily. "What is it you offer?"  
"Wealth, all the food you can eat, and people to terrorize," Khamul said.  
"I like the sound of that. Tell me more."  
"Far, far in the west there are mountains called the Misty Mountains," Khamul said. "They hold many dwarf-realms full of vast riches."  
"But no doubt they are strongly guarded," the dragon said.  
"Well, yes, but that would be no trouble for a beast such as you."  
"Tell me of other dwarf realms."  
"There are some in the Blue Mountains. They are wealthy as well."  
"I find I like that one even less," the dragon said. "Prepare to die, insolent creatures!"  
"Wait! Wait!" Khamul exclaimed. "Bid your time, great dragon! All things must fall, and the dwarves are not immune by any means. The great halls of Khazad-Dum will crumble into ruin, and the Blue Mountains will be decimated. Then you can strike!"  
The dragon considered this. "You have given me the opportunity to claim my rightful position as king of the dwarves," it said. "I like this. I shall, indeed, keep my ears open for news."  
"And you'll let us go?" Khamul asked.  
"Do not interfere with the realm I shall create," the dragon warned. "Give me your names, both of you."  
"Khamul," Khamul said. "And this is Glorfindel."  
"Ah, of the First Age," the dragon said, chuckling. "Were it not for the deal I have made, I would slay you where you stand. But I shall abide by these terms. Leave now, and when I am a king neither of you shall bother me."  
"We agree," Khamul said. "But we must know your name, too, great dragon, or else we may think to defeat a dragon, only to find it is you."  
"I am Smaug the Magnificent," the dragon said. "My name will be a sound of terror among the dwarves. Now leave! I grow tired of this deal already!"  
"That was a foolish thing to do!" Glorfindel hissed as they fled down the tunnel. "Dragons are double-dealing creatures!"  
"It was the only way out and we're both still alive," Khamul said. "I call it a fine deal indeed."  
"And what now? Do we seek out more dangerous creatures until we are, at last, slain?" Glorfindel asked bitterly.   
"No," Khamul said. "Now we go back to the west."


	7. Land of the Lost

"You are clever. Far more clever than I would have given you credit for. You have sent a minion to Gondor to spy on the Numenoreans there, thereby keeping her from questioning your actions, while at the same time gathering information. And by sending that pair of imbeciles to the realm – or should I say realms – of Arnor you have gained important information. I also congratulate you on your skilled manipulation of that Haradrim. She has been gone for so long now I can hardly recall her."  
"She left of her own free will," Morion said, staring out at the gray, misty landscape. "I had nothing to do with it."  
Melkor snorted. "Your patience has paid off. Gondor is at its peak and with the ascension of another king will begin its decline. And Arnor has fallen and been divided. While Arthedain may be strong, and Cardolan an ally of that land, Rhudaur is ripe for the taking."  
"Not yet," Morion said.   
"Your patience is beginning to seem foolish," Melkor said.   
"The ring prevents you from taking my mind," Morion said, recognizing the gleam in the Dark Vala's eye. "I am master of my own thoughts and actions."  
"You need allies," Melkor hissed. "Sauron is stirring, I can feel it, but he is not strong enough to contest the powers of these lands. They will fall soon, but you must cause the falling!"  
"I will do it in my own time, in my own way," Morion said. He ground his teeth in frustration with the Vala. It was always the way whenever Melkor wished to talk. Morion would suddenly find himself in a gray land covered in rolling mist. Shapes of trees, and of animals, but nothing substantial, covered the land. A river ran through the land, dividing it in half. What lived on the other side of the river, Morion did not know, and had no wish to. He had named the desolate world the 'Land of the Lost'.  
"You are a fool," Melkor snarled. "You will gain everything only to lose it!"  
"Then so will you," Morion said.  
Melkor snarled and slapped Morion, sending the ringbearer falling to the ground, blood trickling out of his mouth. He knew when he woke up he would find no trace of the injury, but still, it hurt.  
"I can always find better servants," Melkor snarled.  
"But it will take you a long time," Morion said, standing up and wiping the blood away. "You are not as patience as I."  
Melkor glared at him, but did not strike again. "Follow me," he said, walking toward the door of the strange gray mansion Morion always found himself in.  
Leaving behind the gray building, Melkor led Morion to the edge of the river. "What do you see across the water?" he asked.  
Morion frowned. "Nothing," he said.  
"Look closer!" Melkor snarled, slapping him again.  
"A mountain," Morion said. It was just barely visible against the omnipresent mist.   
"What else?"  
"Nothing," Morion snapped. "There is nothing else there!"  
"Do you know what is in that mountain?"  
Morion shook his head.  
"There are two sides of this land," Melkor said. "Mine, which is this side of the river. The other side belongs to the being that lives inside that mountain. Though I am stronger by far than it, the being can cause immense trouble in your precious world. Just as I controlled your mind and body for but a short time, so too can it control those around you! Do not let your guard down!"  
"What is it?" Morion asked, staring at the mountain. "What lives there?"  
Melkor did not answer but looked down the river. "Ah, here he comes again," he muttered.  
"Who?" Morion asked, looking downriver.  
A ship crafted in the style of long-lost Numenor slowly drifted upstream, manned by a crew of two men. Both looked old, haggard, and thoroughly demoralized.   
"Who are they?" Morion asked, though he knew the answer immediately.  
"Do not say anything!" Melkor hissed as Morion stepped forward.  
"He is my grandfather!" Morion snarled. "Amandil!" he cried out.  
The ancient patriarch of the Lords of the Andunie looked up wearily. "Who is there?" he asked, his voice broken.  
"It is I, Morion!"  
"What are you doing in the water, my child?"  
Morion frowned.  
"He thinks he is floating to Valinor," Melkor said mockingly. "He is unaware that he drifted into these lands and can never get out."  
"Amandil, you have strayed off course!" Morion called. "You are in…another dimension," he said for lack of a better term.  
The old man frowned. "I do not think that is so, Morion," he said. "We are close to Valinor, I can feel it!"  
"No, you are lost," Morion said. "Hopelessly lost!"  
Amandil shook his head sadly. "I must be hallucinating," he muttered and began to steer the boat back up the river.  
Desperate, Morion tried to think of any way to save his grandfather from an eternity of rowing up and down the river dividing the Land of the Lost.  
"Tell him to go to the West," Melkor muttered, annoyed.  
"Go to the West!" Morion called.  
"That is where I am going!" Amandil called.  
The words appeared to have no effect, but then a bright ray of true daylight streaked through the clouds and mists of the land, blinding Melkor, who turned away with a curse. Morion, however, watched as the small boat sailed into calm waters. The shore there was green and tall trees grew. The land, though, he could see as the beam of light faded, was in constant twilight.   
"Eldamar," he whispered in reverence.  
"Yes," Melkor snarled, looking back once the vision, and Amandil, faded. "You freed him from this place. I hope you are pleased."  
"I am," Morion said. "Why did you help me?" he asked suspiciously.  
Melkor shrugged. "The Valar are now in your debt. For many long years they wanted Amandil's suffering to end, and now you have done it. They will reward you for this."  
"But I am Sauron's servant. They despise me."  
"They are honorable creatures," Melkor sneered. "They will repay you."  
"How?" Morion asked, looking to where Amandil had vanished with intense suspicion.  
"I do not know," Melkor said. He was grinning. "But this is good news. Good news indeed. For now two have left these lands. So two must come and join us."  
Morion was puzzled. "Must there always be two floating down the water?" he asked.  
"It does not matter what they are doing," Melkor said. "Tuor and Idril were here before Amandil and his servant. When the hapless Numenorean arrived, the others were allowed to go free. Now that Amandil has left, the Valar must fill the void with others."  
"You have an idea of who would you like," Morion guessed.  
"Of course I do," Melkor said. His tongue flicked across his teeth in a sign Morion knew all too well.   
"Who?"  
"I will see if the Valar are fools enough to give him to me. Perhaps they still remember his deeds with the bitterness that led to the raising of storms barring the passage into Eldamar. We will see. In the meantime…"   
Hoping to avoid further injury, Morion did not resist as the Dark Vala crushed him against his body.   
As he ravaged the lord, Melkor glanced up and across the river to the mountain. He shot it one dark glance and a quick arrogant smile. Was it his imagination or did a flash of darkness respond in bitter anger?


	8. The Visitor

At last! Never had Khamul been so pleased to see the Brown Lands.   
"These are the inhabited lands!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the lands that – though empty – still contained water and plant life.   
"They do not look like much," Glorfindel said. "Which way to this Imladris of which you spoke?"  
"North," Khamul said, gesturing towards the Misty Mountains. "Just follow the mountains. I'm sure you'll run into some elves in Lorien if you keep to the eastern half of them."  
"Then I will go there," the elf said. "I thank you for your help, but I pray that we do not meet again."  
"Likewise," Khamul said.   
"Where will you go now?" Glorfindel asked. "You have told me Gondor has set a watch on Mordor. It seems all these lands are allied against you."  
"Time has passed," Khamul said. "I'll go to Haradwaith and stir up some trouble for the king. I don't know who he is, but he'll have to reckon with the Haradrim if he wants to keep his crown."  
They parted ways then, each hoping that they never crossed each other's paths again.   
Khamul traveled across the Dead Marshes, laughing at the faces of dead elves and men she saw there. Sneaking past Minas Anor and Osgiliath took more skill, but Khamul pulled up her hood and bent over, walking like a frail old woman whenever she encountered a fellow traveler.  
One day as she strode through Ithilien, admiring the land in spring, the clank of armor caught her attention, and she brought the black cloak up over her head and hunched over.   
"Ah, grandmother," the traveler called but a few minutes later. He was a Gondorian soldier, there was no doubt about that. The seven stars and white tree had been beaten into his armor, along with more recently acquired dents. "You should not be traveling this way," he warned.  
"Aye? And why not?" Khamul asked in a high-pitched voice.  
"These lands are not safe, grandmother," the soldier said. "Hyarmendacil's war may be won, but there are still stragglers. You would not want to be spitted on a barbarian's spear."  
"I will take caution," Khamul said, and continued on her way.   
Hyarmendacil. The man's name did not sit well with her. Who was he? A king of Gondor, obviously. But which king? How long had Khamul been gone? And who had this king conquered?  
A horrible thought occurred to her, and Khamul broke into a sprint, ignoring all caution, and ran down the road. She eventually came to the land of her birth, and stopped in the sands, staring in disbelief.  
All around her lay the unburied bodies of Haradrim. Men, women, children, all lying rotting in the sun. A great deal had been cut to pieces in battle, but others had more clean wounds, suggesting a mass execution.  
"What happened?" Khamul gasped.  
Hyarmendacil. Conqueror of the South. That was what the name meant. Blood boiled in Khamul, and she ran across the lands, screaming in rage and fury.  
She ran all the way to where Umbar had stood, passing more scenes of destruction and death. Not a single Haradrim village had been left standing. None of her people were left alive.  
And Umbar had been rebuilt.   
All her work, the mark she had left upon the Numenoreans of the south. It had all been erased. Erased by the years and by this man who dared to claim he had conquered the south.  
"No!" Khamul snarled in defiance, sinking to her knees on top of a large sand dune. They were so similar, she wondered if it was the one she had stood upon all those years ago when she had led the charge into Umbar.   
Far below her, a sea of metal-clad Gondorians were shoveling sand over a mass grave where hundreds and hundreds of Haradrim lay. Mumakil corpses lay smoldering nearby.  
"No," Khamul hissed, clenching a fistful of sand, only to have it slip through her fingers.   
A rash thought seized her. She would go running down this dune, screaming bloody murder, her bright sword flashing in the hot desert sun. She would kill these Gondorians. She would kill them all.  
A blood-red haze descended upon her eyes, blinding her. She started to stand up, but then common sense took hold.   
"No," she whispered, turning away from the grisly scene and walking away from the Haradwaith she had always known.  
*  
Khamul walked through the lands of Middle-Earth heading in one direction: away from Haradwaith. She walked through Gondor, she walked across the White Mountains and into lush green fields. She walked to the foothills of the Misty Mountains and continued walking. Her heart was hollow in her breast. It was all for naught. All of it. Haradwaith had fallen, her people were dead. There was nothing left for her in Arda.  
She crossed the Greyflood River and within a week found herself walking alongside another river, the name of which she could not recall.  
Finally, exhausted and grief-stricken, Khamul collapsed by the bank of the river and stared miserably at its depths.  
A few hours later the sounds of battle reached her.   
"I don't care," she muttered. "They can kill each other for all I care."  
Shouts reached her soon as the battle drew closer. They were the shouts of Numenorean men, or else she was a fool.  
That changed things.  
Leaping to her feet, Khamul snarled in pure fury and drew her sword. "I will show them!" she screamed, racing toward the battle, fully intent upon killing each and every participant.  
Sprinting up and down a hill, Khamul launched herself against a burly Numenorean, cutting him in half. They seemed worse for wear, these men. She suspected they'd had a falling out with whatever lord reigned now. Perhaps it was still Valandil here in the north. The man was fairly indestructible.  
Screaming incoherently, Khamul slashed, sliced, and cut her way through two dozen of the fallen Numenoreans. They could not stand against her blind fury, raging bloodlust, and utter disregard for any wound she received.  
"I suppose I should thank you," the object of the men's attack said quietly as Khamul stood in the midst of the slaughter, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from her face, her hair, her sword, everything. Very little of it was hers. These were fallen Numenoreans indeed; they had even forgotten the fighting ways of their people.  
Turning her attention to the speaker, Khamul frowned. It was an old man dressed in shabby robes, leaning heavily on a twisted wooden staff. How he had fended off the attackers for so long, Khamul did not know.   
"Do what you like," Khamul said, finding a scrap of clean cloth on one of the bodies and using it to wipe the blood from her sword.   
"You fought like Tulkas himself," the man said.  
"I suppose that's a compliment," Khamul said. "Why were these men attacking you, old man?" she asked.  
"I fear that I did not wish to give them money for crossing a bridge," the old man said with a shrug. "They took it rather badly."  
Khamul snorted. These were no Voreas, she thought, looking at the dead men. Though they had taken her old job, they were no match for the stern, one-eyed warrior.  
"You could've been killed, old man," Khamul said. "It seems that there's chaos in these lands."  
"Aye," the old man said, nodding. "That is why I have come."  
The words struck her as odd, and Khamul glanced askance at the old man. He was looking away, off towards the Misty Mountains.   
"I do not know where to go," he said. "Perhaps you could recommend a place? You seem a great traveler."  
"Don't go to Gondor," Khamul said. "They are fiends and murderers there."  
"Alas, that is sad news indeed."  
"They murdered the entire Haradrim people," Khamul said. "I fear I'm the last one left."  
"No," the old man said, shaking his head. "They are a cunning, resourceful people. Haradwaith is vast; they will survive."  
"I know what I saw!" Khamul snapped. "Who are you anyway?" she demanded. "You just come here, seem like you know it all, but end up nearly getting murdered by a bunch of bandits!"  
"I will learn," the old man said. He leaned more on his staff. "And who are you?" he asked.   
Oh no, Khamul thought with a groan. Don't let this turn into another Glorfindel incident! I just seem to have the worst luck. "What is it, old man? Do you sense evil in me?"  
"I sense deep grief," the old man said. "Your people are dead, you are distraught."  
"But do you sense evil?" Khamul sneered.   
"No," the old man said. "I sense destiny."  
Khamul shook her head. "My destiny was to destroy Umbar and decimate the Numenoreans. Look around you, old man. Numenor has fallen, Umbar has been rebuilt, and they have paid my people back in more than full measure for what we wrought years and years ago. I am a thing of the past. No more than a relic."  
"Some destinies take longer to fulfill than others," the old man said. "That ring you bear, for instance."  
"Aha!" Khamul exclaimed. "So you are one of those accursed elves, or a friend of them! Some messenger from the Valar! An enemy of mine!"  
"No," the old man said. "I am a visitor, not a messenger. That ring," he said, gesturing to the ruby-set band on Khamul's finger, "has eighteen cousins. Eight are worn by others of your kind. Seven belong to the dwarves or are scattered, and three were given to the elves."  
"So?" Khamul asked, eyeing the old man warily. He was more than he seemed, she decided.  
"One ring was given to Galadriel and kept since by her," the old man said. "The other two were given to Gil-galad and Cirdan the Shipwright."  
"I've seen them myself," Khamul said. "I know that they bore them, that Cirdan still does. Vilya belongs to Elrond Half-Elven now."  
"Ah, you know almost the whole tale," the old man said with a sly grin.  
"What?" Khamul asked.  
"Cirdan did not keep Narya," the old man said.   
Khamul laughed. "And I suppose he gave it to you?" she sneered.  
The old man held up his hand, and lo and behold, there was a sparkling golden ring set with a ruby. It looked so much like her own. Khamul had to check that hers was still on her finger.  
"Elf!" she snarled.  
"Must we fight?" the old man asked wearily.  
"Yes!" Khamul hissed, drawing her sword.  
"I am a tired old man. May I travel with you?" he asked.  
Khamul sighed in exasperation. It was Glorfindel all over again. "Did the Valar drop you here out of the sky?" she asked.  
"No," the old man said, shaking his head.  
"All right, fine," Khamul snapped. The more she looked at him, the more she perceived a strength in the old man. There was power there; more power than she wanted to fight. "What are you?" she asked.  
The old man shrugged. "In Valinor I was called Olorin," he said.  
"That's a damn silly name," Khamul said. "Too elvish."  
"What name suits me in these lands then?" he asked.   
"I still think you're an elf," Khamul said. "One of those really high elves; the ones that never leave Valinor."  
"Then why would I have left?"  
"I don't know. Maybe you were ordered to."  
"So you think I am one of the Vanyar then?"  
"Yes," Khamul said, nodding. "I definitely think so."  
The old man shrugged. "Perhaps I am," he said.  
"You're an old elf with a staff," Khamul said. "It's magical, isn't it?"  
The man shrugged again.  
"What's that in the language around here?" Khamul muttered.  
"Ah, you plan to give me a name then?" the old man asked.   
"Yes, I do," Khamul said. "Gandalf," she said after a moment. "Your name is Gandalf."


	9. The Necromancer of Dol Guldur

Khamul and Gandalf traveled together for a time, but Khamul found the old man so unnerving they parted ways after just a few days.  
It was like being around a dragon that was pretending to be a sheep, Khamul thought. It might have a sheepskin thrown over its head, but it's still a dragon.  
"We will meet again, I think," Gandalf said.  
"Everyone seems to be making prophecies about when I'll meet them again," Khamul said. "Not never then? We'll see each other again? On the opposite sides of the field, I assume."  
"Perhaps," Gandalf said.   
It was frustrating meeting these fascinating, but disturbing, people yet knowing that one day she would either run them through, or they would her.  
Without any clear direction, Khamul followed where her feet wanted to take her. Apparently, her feet wanted to take her across the Misty Mountains and into Greenwood.  
"I don't know if this is such a good idea," Khamul muttered, eyeing the forest nervously.  
She traveled under the tall trees for many days, encountering no elves. Have they abandoned the land? she thought. Have the last of them finally passed from the shores? Is Glorfindel the only one left?  
"Halt and state your purpose!" a clear voice rang out, disrupting Khamul's thoughts.   
She grinned. It had been too long since she heard that voice. "Vorea!" she exclaimed. "You don't recognize me?"  
"Khamul!" the one-eyed ringbearer exclaimed, hurrying over and embracing her friend. "You have been gone for ages!"  
"So it seems," Khamul said. "I trust it's still the Third Age though?"  
Vorea nodded. "We have much to catch up on," she said.   
"Yes, but first of all, what are you doing here?"  
"Sauron has called us."  
"Eh? He's alive?" A sudden knot of fear twisted her stomach. Did he know about the elf? Probably not, Khamul guessed. Sauron would have more important things to do than look for treachery from his ringbearers.  
"Alive, mostly well, and has established a base here, in Greenwood, right under the elves' very noses!" Vorea said. "We're all here. Sauron said you'd be along shortly, but I feared that he was mistaken."  
"Apparently not," Khamul said. "What year is it?" she asked.  
Vorea looked pained. "What year did you leave us?" she asked.  
"Two hundred something, I think," Khamul said with a wave of her hand. "What is it? Three hundred? Four hundred?"  
"It is the year 1048 of the Third Age," Vorea whispered.  
Khamul stopped in her tracks. "What?" she gasped.  
"A thousand and forty-eight years have passed since the Last Alliance," Vorea said.  
"No! That's madness! I can't have been gone that long!" Khamul protested, her mind reeling. "Who rules in Arnor? I know it's Hyarmendacil in Gondor, may he be stricken down by the vilest plague."  
"It is no longer Arnor," Vorea said. "It split into three kingdoms after Earendur, the tenth king."  
"So Valandil finally died, eh?" Khamul muttered.  
"He died around fifty years after you left," Vorea said.   
Khamul nodded. "These three kingdoms, which is the strongest?"  
"Arthedain, ruled by Mallor."  
"I see. And the other two?"  
"Cardolan is an ally of Arthedain's after the initial bitterness wore off," Vorea said. "Rhudaur is estranged from the other two kingdoms. It is the northernmost kingdom, and the one Sauron thinks we have the best chance of taking."  
Khamul nodded. She was nodding at lot, she noticed. It was difficult to take all this in.  
"This Hyarmendacil," she said. "What number king is he?"  
"Fifteenth."  
Khamul groaned.  
"It is not so bad," Vorea said. "Morion has told us that he will be the last great king of Gondor. In his words, 'Gondor has reached its zenith; it will now beginning its fall'."  
"Poetry," Khamul sneered. "Right, so where is Sauron?" she asked, looking around.  
Vorea smiled and kept walking. In a few moments they came to where a barren hill rose above the thinning trees. A squat black fortress covered the hill. It seemed to ooze dark power. Khamul grinned. It was Sauron all right.   
"He calls himself the Necromancer of Dol Guldur," Vorea said. "He does not want to come into conflict with the great powers of the world, especially Lorien and the wood elves."  
"Wood elves are weak," Khamul sneered.   
"They are strong in great numbers. And they know the forest well. We are not as familiar with it as they are."  
Khamul shrugged. "How do we get in?" she asked, looking at the fortress.  
"Ah! The hero returns!" a familiar voice called out as Khamul and Vorea walked into a throne room that looked suspiciously like the one in Barad-dur.  
"I should say the same of you," Khamul said to the thin, pale man who sat on the throne. It was Sauron, but it was Sauron greatly weakened.  
"You wouldn't have, perchance, stumbled across the One Ring, have you?" Sauron asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"No," Khamul said.  
"Where have you been then?"  
"Out in the east," Khamul said. "Beyond where anyone has ever gone before."  
"There is nothing but wasteland out there," Sauron said.   
"And there was nothing here either," Khamul said. "Though I can tell that's changed."  
"Rhudaur is ripe for attack," Morion said. He seemed paler as well, Khamul noticed.   
"Yes," Sauron said, tapping his fingers against the arms of the throne. "But not by me, and not by any of you either."  
"Eh?" Yanta asked. "Who will destroy it then?"  
"A king," Sauron said, thinking. "A king of a realm that no one will dare attack. A realm that we control utterly. Ah! I've got it!"  
"What is it?" Metima asked.  
"Do we get to rule it?" Yanta asked.  
"Angmar," Sauron said with a wicked smile.   
"What's that?" Aica asked.  
"It is a realm we shall build," Sauron said. "Near Gundabad, I think. It is in the hands of the orcs once more, and they will be accepting to my demands."  
"So we're going to build an invincible, unassailable country?" Khamul asked.  
"Ah, it has been too long since I've heard your doubting words, lieutenant," Sauron said. "Yes, we will build it. It will not be invulnerable – no country is – but it will be feared throughout all Arda."  
"And who will rule it?" Yanta asked once more, grinning.  
"One of you, obviously," Sauron said. "Someone who can command dread."  
Khamul smiled. There were few better at sending peasants screaming in terror than her. Although Vorea did come close.  
"Morion, you are leader of the ringbearers, and so you shall be king of Angmar," Sauron said.  
Khamul glowered in displeasure. Hardly fair, she thought. I hope Glorfindel skewers Sauron, or that Gandalf incinerates him. He's only just come back and already he's making my life worse.  
"Khamul, you shall continue to serve him as his lieutenant," Sauron instructed. "Terrorize the people of Rhudaur. Kill the Dunedain that live there. Destroy any blood of Numenor you find."  
"That's what I do," Khamul said. "I live to serve."  
"Indeed you do," Sauron said.  
Arrogant bastard, Khamul thought bitterly.   
"Angmar," Vorea whispered. "A name that shall shake the foundations of Middle-Earth."  
"I think you're giving his idea too much credit," Khamul said.


	10. Release and Banishment

The great and mighty lord of Mandos closed his eyes and tried to get a bit of sleep. It failed miserably, as it always did. Vaire's weaving kept him up, as did the wails and cries of those who wanted to leave his house. And, of course, the damned spirits trapped in the Void wailed louder than all the rest, crying for release.  
"This is madness," he snarled.   
"Are you leaving?" Vaire demanded.  
"I shall be returning shortly," Namo said. "Kindly look after the ghosts, ghasts, and shades for me."  
Vaire sighed but nodded.  
As if the Vala's plate was not full enough, still another heaping spoonful of complications had been splatted on, courtesy of one of those wretched Nazgul; the one possessed by Morgoth, he suspected.  
Amandil's arrival in Eldamar had been a curiosity for the elves, a joy to most of the Valar that the man had finally made it, and an irritation to Namo, for it was now his job to send two spirits in replacement to the Land of the Lost.   
Pacing the twilight lands of Valinor, Namo considered his options. Why it was that two spirits must replace Amandil's and his servant's, he did not know. Some divine law, likely, that he had forgotten in the endless years.   
Why must the mortals always interfere in my plans? he thought in fury. Ah, but this must be a cunning plan of Morgoth's, for he too dwells in the Lost Lands.   
Sitting down on a tree stump, Namo considered his options. He liked the idea of sending spirits from the Everlasting Dark. It was only fair that eventually they should be released. Actually, he had been considering releasing all of them to the Halls.   
"But two must go to the Lands," he muttered. This is why you are the Doomsman, he told himself. You are the only one who can make these decisions. You are the one who damns, and the one who redeems.   
And you might also be the one who's playing right into Morgoth's hands, Namo reminded himself.   
His decision made, Namo strode back to his halls, ignoring an annoyed remark from his wife, and walked straight into the Everlasting Dark.  
"Right then!" he called out to the spirits. Their bright souls were whirling around him, more than a few bitterly angry or annoyed. "You have nothing to be angry about," he told them sharply. "Did I not spare you from Morgoth's wrath all those long years he was trapped in the Void? I made sure you were separate from him, safe. And now I shall release you all into my Halls."  
Most of the spirits fairly danced with glee. There weren't that many. While Namo would gladly have kept ten times more in the Everlasting Dark, Manwe had a compassionate streak in him that Namo found grating. At current count there were…well, there weren't a lot.  
One by one, Namo seized hold of a spirit and threw it into his Halls. "No," he muttered each time. "Not the right one."  
Finally – and all too soon – he was down to the last two. Both were bitter, angry, resentful, and while even Namo felt queasy at abandoning them to Morgoth, there was a malevolent part of him that snickered in malicious joy.  
"This is what you get for destroying the peace," Namo told a spirit that was attempting to bite him. "I do regret this, you know," Not much, he thought. "But it is necessary for the stability of Arda. Heed my advice," he said, looking from spirit to spirit. "Stay to the shore with the dark mountain. It is no more safe there, but you may be able to escape if you do not enter the mountain."  
With a wave of his hand, Namo banished the two spirits to the Land of the Lost.  
"What have you done?" Vaire exclaimed as Namo stepped back into his halls.  
"There are not so many," Namo said, looking at the spirits returned from the Everlasting Dark. "And Manwe will be pleased. He is forever telling me I should empty the Void."  
"No!" Vaire snapped. "The spirits you sent! You have played into the Dark Vala's hands!"  
"I was afraid of that," Namo muttered, slumping onto his throne and looking at his gray kingdom with misery.  
"You have given the Dark Lord a pawn, and you given a land that needs no more trouble a rabble-rouser!"  
"We will see," Namo said. He glanced over at Vaire's weaving. The consequences of his actions were not yet woven. There's a chance she could be wrong then, he thought.


	11. Deals With Orcs

"I know what you're going to say," Morion said as Khamul opened her mouth.  
"I don't think you do," Khamul said.  
"You were about to say 'I don't like it here'. Or some variation on that."  
Khamul scowled.  
"I was right, wasn't I?" Morion asked, grinning.   
"Shut up," Khamul snapped.  
"Did you reach Gundabad in your travels?"  
"I passed it," Khamul said. "I wasn't sure who held it and whether they'd be friendly or not, so I didn't stop."  
"It is orcs who hold it now," Morion said. "And it is with orcs such as the ones here that we will build Angmar."  
"I don't like this scheme of Sauron's," Khamul said. "I think we should strike at Gondor. Knock Hyarmendacil off his throne."  
Morion sighed in exasperation. "For the thousandth time, Khamul! Hyarmendacil is one of the strongest kings Gondor has ever had! His army numbers in the tens – if not hundreds – of thousands! He would crush us like ants! I am sorry for the blow dealt to the Haradrim, but we cannot avenge it right now."  
"When can we?"  
"When Arnor is no longer a threat," Morion said.  
"Arnor is crumbled," Khamul said. "Look at it! It's been divided into three different countries! It's already fallen! Leave it be and let it rot!"  
"I will not question Sauron's commands," Morion said.  
"Coward," Khamul snarled.  
"Firstly, I believe he is right," Morion said. "The way to win this is to make sure Arnor is out of the picture permanently. And secondly, if I disobey Sauron, there is no guarantee he will keep Melkor out of my mind."  
"He'll do it for his own interests," Khamul sneered. "He doesn't want Morgoth nosing around in his business."  
"I cannot count on that, and the Dark Lord is a terrible master."  
"Then throw yourself off a cliff and end it all."  
"The Morannon blew up and you were on it," Morion said. "You're still here. I think it would take more than a fall off a cliff to end my life."  
"Maybe if I stabbed you again," Khamul said.  
"I still don't remember that."  
"Vorea gutted you with her spear, too. Do you remember that?"  
"Fortunately, no."  
Khamul sighed and looked around the lands around Gundabad. They seemed more abandoned than a thousand years ago.   
"So, where's the orc chief?" she asked.  
"He's taking his time," Morion said.   
"If he takes much more time, I'm going to cut his head off and stick it on a pike when he finally deigns to show up," Khamul growled.  
Morion rolled his eyes, then a bit of movement caught his eye. "Here they come," he said, nodding in the direction where a stout orc surrounded by smaller goblins crept out of the brush.  
"Took your time," Khamul snarled.  
"We were delayed," the orc chief growled. "And we are not your slaves, Shriekers."  
Khamul glanced at Morion, raising an eyebrow.  
"Aica has a very interesting warcry," Morion explained. "It has given rise to many legends, not the least of which is something people are calling a banshee."  
"So you say you're not our slaves, eh?" Khamul snarled at the chief. "Then who is Sauron to you?"  
"He is yet another power in this land," the orc chief said. "No more, no less."  
"Morgoth was his master," Khamul said. "And Morgoth was the creator of the orc. Therefore, you owe Sauron – Morgoth's lieutenant – your allegiance in thanks for your very existence."  
"We do not believe in debts," the orc chief said. "It is good that we exist, but we feel no need to serve Sauron in repayment."  
"We ask a small thing of you," Morion said. "We shall be building a new realm to the west of Gundabad. We need you as spies, perhaps even as warriors, if you would agree to it."  
"What's in it for us?" the orc chief snarled. His goblin guards muttered their agreement, their yellow eyes glittering with greed.  
"Any raids in which you participated you would receive a share of the gains," Morion said.  
"How much is a share?"  
"Enough," Morion said. "You do not want us for enemies, and there are many other orc chiefs who would amiable to our demands, and who would also like Gundabad for their residence."  
The orc chief hissed. "I don't trust you, Shrieker," he growled.   
"You have no reason to," Morion said. "But do you trust the promise of Sauron's revenge upon you should you refuse our generous offer?"  
The orc chief hesitated. "Fine," he said. "But that share we get better be damn good!"  
Morion smiled. "It will be all you deserve," he promised.


	12. The Damned Elves

The world had stopped spinning, which was good. Unfortunately, it was the world that had been spinning, not the Everlasting Dark, which meant that he was both alive, and back in the world. And, he assumed, with that homicidal maniac who had promised that - should the two ever be granted bodies again - he would personally send him back to the Halls as quickly as possible. Therefore, it was necessary to enact precisely that situation upon the other as quickly as possible.  
The High King of the Noldor leapt to his feet and looked around for something with which to deal a death-blow to the other wretch.  
He was standing near a fast-flowing river on a very rocky bank. Rocky bank…rocks. Excellent.  
Just as the other was stirring, the High King seized a rock and hurled it at him.   
With a curse, the dark elf spun to the side and jumped to his feet.  
"Treacherous as always, eh, Noldo?" he sneered, lunging at the High King.  
"You should be pleased," the High King said, kicking the dark elf in the chest. "I took your words to heart. You said you would kill me when we got out, and so I seek to avoid that situation with your own death."  
"Kinslayer!" the dark elf gasped, grimacing in pain.  
"Ah, but I am not a traitor," the High King said with a vicious smile. "You are reckoned as the worst of all elfkind."  
"You and your damn oath brought me to this!" the dark elf snarled, lunging once more for the High King.  
They grappled for a moment, before the dark elf slipped on the slippery rocks, and the High King hurled him into the river.  
"I see that I stand on the bank with the mountain!" he called to the floundering elf. "It seems you must survive on the other shore! I hope it is a fiend indeed that dwells there and that he takes great pleasure in rending your flesh from your bones!"  
The dark elf was too preoccupied with avoiding drowning or being swept downstream to come up with a suitable retort, but when he finally hauled himself onto the opposite shore, he glared bitterly at the High King.  
"Stay out of the cave!" he warned mockingly. "It would be a terrible shame if you encountered some great evil! Ah, to be slain again! By what this time? Another balrog, or perhaps Melkor himself!"  
The High King laughed. "I am no fool!" he snarled. "Why test the truth of Namo's words when I can simply avoid the cave? Unlike you, the demon on this shore does not dwell on the surface!"  
"How can you be so sure?" the dark elf asked, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps Namo lied!"  
"For what purpose? He is as weak and compassionate as all the others, though I doubt you could test the merit of his words, dark elf!"  
A chill descended on both elves, silencing their words. The High King grinned when he saw that the bitter cold emanated from the dark elf's side of the river.   
"It seems your demon approaches," he said, sitting himself down on a tree stump to watch the torment or devouring of the dark elf.  
A man who could have been an elf or slender human, walked toward the river, anger flashing in his dark eyes.   
"So," he hissed, "Namo played into my hands, but not so much that I can have my revenge."  
The High King's blood ran cold.  
"Worthless," Melkor snarled, striking the dark elf and sending him to the ground. "He sends Maeglin, the traitor of Gondolin, as well. But he redeems himself in that he has sent you, Feanor, into my hands."  
"Ah, but I am on the other side of the river," Feanor pointed out, standing up and trying to appear as brave as he wished he felt.  
"And who says I cannot cross the river?" Melkor asked, taking a step forward toward the rushing water.  
"Evil finds it difficult to cross moving water," Feanor said resolutely. "You cannot cross the river, and I shall not cross it of my own free will."  
"I am not the only power in these lands," Melkor said. He looked with distaste at the cowering Maeglin. "I think the other power may be willing to accept a trade."  
"It dwells in the darkness of the cave, and I shall not go there!" Feanor exclaimed. "You shall never have me!"  
Melkor raised his eyebrow and kicked Maeglin in the ribs. "Get up," he snarled. "We have work to do."


	13. Angmar

"It's raining again," Khamul reported.  
"So I can see," Morion said. He looked paler than usual. Khamul was starting to wonder if the ring was drawing out his life. He'll be a true wraith then, she thought. I just hope I don't follow him.  
"The orcs make good builders, even if they are irritating little creatures."  
"Are they nearly done?" Morion asked, surprised.  
"Close," Khamul said with a shrug. "Maybe in another year."  
Morion nodded. "Carn Dum," he said. "The capital of Angmar. Do the kings of Rhudaur know anything about this?" he asked.  
"No," Khamul said, shaking her head. "Not a thing."  
"Are you sure? If they get wind of this, Angmar may fall before it's truly ever risen."  
"I'm sure," Khamul said.  
Morion nodded. "Good. Go see that the orcs are working properly."  
He's in a strange mood today, Khamul thought. Very testy. I wonder if he's ill. Actually, I wonder if we can even be ill.  
"What's going on here?" she demanded, spotting a herd of chattering humans. What are they doing here? she thought. Probably here to raid the land. I leave this spot for two hours and what happens?   
"It is under control," Vorea said. "These," She gestured to the humans, "have flocked to our banner."  
"I wasn't aware that we were waving our banner around so much," Khamul said.  
Vorea shrugged. "Sauron has been sending out scouts to the native tribes in the area. To see if there are any dissatisfied with the Numenorean rulers. As it turns out, there are quite a few."  
"So I see," Khamul said. There were easily three hundred people here, though that included the women and children. "Farmers, craftsmen, we're going to have a working city."  
"That was my idea," Vorea said. "And there are more already on their way. Angmar will be a bustling metropolis soon enough."  
"I hope it's got the army to match," Khamul said. "Or else Rhudaur'll crush us."  
"Rhudaur is the weakest of the three kingdoms. It is Arthedain that we have to worry about, and they are far to the west. They will know nothing of this."  
"I hope you're right," Khamul muttered. "Say, have you noticed anything odd about Morion lately?"  
Vorea frowned. "No. Is he all right?"  
"I don't know," Khamul said. "He just seems to be acting a bit strange."  
"Something with the Vala in his head, I would presume."  
"I hope Melkor doesn't take over his mind again," Khamul said. "I have absolutely no desire to skewer him multiple times."  
"Sauron will be able to keep him under control."  
Khamul snorted. "Sauron's in Dol Guldur. He hasn't the foggiest idea what's going on around here."  
"The Dark Lord is clever," Vorea said. "I would not underestimate him in any way."  
With a shrug, Khamul walked off to find other ringbearers who could organize the townspeople into something resembling order.


	14. Stranger Clad in White

It was a peaceful time of growth and prosperity. Khamul couldn't stand it. She watched Angmar grow and grow and grow. From a single small castle to a mighty fortress, and for the farms enlarge from a few simple patchs to covering the land for miles around.  
"I see you're getting restless again," Morion commented as he joined Khamul's pacing around the fortress corridors.  
"I'm not restless," Khamul scoffed. "Pacing helps me think."  
Morion smiled and nodded knowingly. "What do you think of Angmar?" he asked.  
"It's big," Khamul said. "I don't know if that's a good thing, or bad."  
"Eh? And why would it be bad?"  
"Well, it's just that since it's so big, it's bound to attract some attention."  
"The orcs are taking care of that," Morion said. "The only thing Rhudaur knows is that it's losing more scouts to orcs than usual. That's all."  
"But one day those scouts will get through and back!"  
"We will be ready by then though," Morion said.  
Khamul scowled. "Arnor may be split," she said, "but it's still formidable."  
"Divide and conquer," Morion said. "We strike at Rhudaur, take it, and then march to Cardolan. With the fall of that kingdom, Arthedain will be alone. It will not be easy to conquer, but it can be done."  
"And what about Gondor?"  
"I think Gondor will be having troubles of its own by the time we're ready to march," Morion said, a gleam in his eye.  
"Ah, you're a seer now!"  
"I have a feeling," Morion said.   
"Any other feelings?"  
"As a matter of fact, yes," Morion said with a smile. "I would like you to go to Dol Guldur. You're getting far too comfortable here."  
"I hate this place."  
"Exactly."  
And I also hate Dol Guldur, Khamul thought. There isn't a single good reason to build a fortress right smack between wood elves to the north and Gondorians to the south.  
"Why don't you start off…oh…say about nowish?" Morion suggested.  
"Any particular message I should deliver to the great Sauron?" Khamul asked, her voice oozing sarcasm.  
"No, not really," Morion said. "Just ask him when we should strike at Rhudaur."  
"And he'll replay, 'when you're ready'."  
"Now who's a seer?"  
Twenty minutes later, Khamul was on a horse and hurrying off toward the east, bound for Mirkwood, as it was now being called. Apparently evil things had been coming from the south of the wood, making paths unsafe, eating elves, and the like. Strange, wasn't it? Considering Dol Guldur was in the south of the wood as well.  
Khamul shook her head angrily. Idiot elves, she thought. If they could just put two and two together Sauron would be well and truly dead this time, and I wouldn't be at his beck and call.  
She smiled at the thought. Abandoning Morion, starting a kingdom of her own in Harad. Rallying the Variags and Haradrim to her banner once more, overthrowing Gondor, executing Hyarmendacil, and then ruling for ten thousand years. Yes, she liked that idea quite a lot. Unfortunately, Khamul thought sourly, that won't be happening anytime soon. So long as Sauron's in charge anyway.  
Khamul took her time reaching Dol Guldur. Deciding she'd like to relive a bit of the more glorious past – the past when she wasn't skulking in hills and hiding from elves – Khamul rode past the Gladden Fields, reveling in her perfectly executed trap and slaughter of Isildur and his sons.  
If only Valandil had been there as well, she thought cheerfully, grinning with pleasure as she saw that the ground itself still seemed stained with blood.   
As she meandered her way through the woods, following the Gladden River, Khamul frowned as a flash of white caught her eye.  
"Huh, what's that then?" she muttered. A very large stork, perhaps? Maybe, but I doubt it.  
Urging her horse toward the bank of the river, Khamul stood up in the stirrups and peered over at the marsh that had sprung up in the millennium following Isildur's demise.  
"Who's there!" she shouted.  
An old man stood straight up, glancing this way and that. He looked more than a little like a stork, Khamul thought.  
"Who are you?" she asked. The ring she wore exuded fear, but Khamul guessed the man would be terrified of her anyway. It wasn't every day one ran into a Haradrim woman wearing a sword with such confidence.  
"Oh, forgive me, great lady," the man said, bowing deeply to Khamul. "I was merely wandering the marsh. Had I seen your approach, I would have declared myself immediately. Indeed, these times are treacherous, and unannounced visitors can be a danger in disguise."  
He's got a fair way with words, Khamul thought, but I don't trust him. He's like a snake. "What are you doing here?" she asked.  
"My home lies many leagues to the south," the man said. "The closest path is through these marshes."  
Khamul's eyes narrowed. Was that a glimmer of something she saw hastily tucked into the old man's robes?  
"What've you got there?" she growled.  
"I know not of what you speak, great lady," the old man said. He took a step backwards, still smiling pleasantly.  
"That thing you just hid in your robes," Khamul said. "It was shiny. What is it?"  
"I see that it is true then what they say about women and that which sparkles," the man said with an amused chuckle. "It is nothing, great lady. A trifle, nothing more."  
A trifle? And I'm a two-headed goat. "What is it?" Khamul snapped.  
"A silly thing I have found," the old man said. "You need not concern yourself with it, great lady. Please, do not let me keep you from your destination. The day wears on, and these lands are not safe after night has fallen."  
"I'm the reason these lands aren't safe after dark," Khamul growled, spurring her horse to the edge of the river. "Now show me what you found, old man, or I'll leap across this river and cut your head off."  
"I think you would find that difficult to do," the old man said, his eyes gleaming dangerously. "Both in the crossing of the river and the taking of my head. But I shall show you, as I think you would know it."  
Khamul frowned. What was he talking about?  
The old man held up a circlet set with a white stone that shone so brightly it nearly blinded Khamul. Though the circlet was covered in moss and slime, the stone shone pure beneath.  
"I've seen that before," Khamul murmured.  
"It is called the Elendilmir," the old man said reverently. "I was looking for…other things when I happened upon it."  
"What sort of 'other things'?"  
"Nothing of importance," the man said. "I shall now be on my way, great lady." He tucked the Elendilmir back into his robes and started to disappear into the long grasses of the marsh.  
"Hey!" Khamul called after him. "Who are you anyway? What's your business here?"  
"My business is of my own concern!" the old man called back. "And as for my name, you will hear it one day echoing in the palaces of the mighty!"  
Bastard, Khamul thought, turning her horse back on the road to Dol Guldur. What was he looking for anyway? The Elendilmir is the crown Isildur was wearing when I shot him… Did he find Isildur's body? What does it matter anyway? The Ring slipped from his finger. That's how I could get a clear shot.  
I hope that disgusting old man didn't find the Ring. Much as I despise Sauron, it'd be even worse to serve him. Hopefully that damn piece of metal's floated down the Anduin and into the sea, never to be seen again.


	15. Fall of Rhudaur

Khamul reached Dol Guldur a few days later. It was an exceptionally gloomy day, she noticed as she pulled her hood over her face to keep out the rain.  
"So, you decided to come," Sauron said as she walked into the throne room.  
"Yes, I did," Khamul said. Only because Morion ordered me to.  
"Anything of interest in Angmar?"  
"No," Khamul said.  
"Anything of interest on the road?"  
Khamul's eyes narrowed. Did he know about the old man? No, of course not. Wizard Sauron may be, but not a mind-reader. And Khamul saw no reason to mention the man to him. There was something peculiar about that old man. He reeked of power, nearly as much as Sauron. A battle between the two (and a battle there surely must be between two such conniving creatures) could only help Khamul. Perhaps they would kill each other, leaving her free to set up her own kingdom.  
"Well?" Sauron asked.  
"No," Khamul answered hastily, realizing she had left the question hanging. "Morion wants to know when we should strike at Rhudaur."  
Sauron considered this. "Soon," he said. "Before they find us out." He paused, considering the idea. "Who rules in Rhudaur?" he asked.  
"I don't know," Khamul said.  
Sauron sighed. "You have been away too long, Khamul," he said. "You think like an elf. Years are hours, and decades mere days."  
Khamul scowled at the rebuke, but kept silent.  
"It was a rhetorical question anyway," Sauron said. "The king of Rhudaur is a decrepit old man nearly a hundred and seventy-five. He is the last descendent of Earendur, last king of Arnor. When he dies, the line of the Dunedain will die out."  
"Completely?" Khamul asked hopefully.  
"In Rhudaur, completely," Sauron said. "It will continue in Cardolan and Arthedain, but one of the three kingdoms will have fallen."  
"It seems that if the king were to die, the kingdom would fall quite quickly," Khamul said. "I do believe a large portion of the population is loyal to us."  
"Why, I do believe you are correct," Sauron said with a dark smile. "Kill the king, Khamul."  
"With pleasure," Khamul said. Another of Isildur's heirs dead, she thought. I wonder if I'll be able to deal the deathblow to the last one.  
*  
"Where is the king? I have not seen him lately," a guard commented as he ran into one of his fellows.  
"I believe he has, once again, fallen asleep in the throne room," the other guard said.   
"He is getting old."  
"Indeed. And yet he has no heir. I fear that young prince in Arthedain will take it as an excuse to annex our kingdom."  
The guards scowled, thinking of Arthedain. "Arrogant bastards," one said, spitting. "Who rules there now? Malvegil?"  
"Barely. He is close to death, they say."  
"I hope he hangs on a little longer. I like not the look of his son."  
"It is not our fault the blood of Numenor runs thin. They like the western lands better, that is all."  
"Ah!" the first guard exclaimed, spotting another comrade walking down the hall. "I see you come from the throne room, friend! Is the king there?"  
The guard shrugged. "Sort of," they said.   
"Eh? What mean you, friend?"  
"Regrettably," the guard said, "I am not your friend."  
There was a flash of steel and the first guard fell, his companion following him seconds later.  
Grinning, Khamul threw off her disguise. Three dead, and no commotion. What a perfect assassination. Now all she had to do was get back to Morion and tell him that Rhudaur was ready for a puppet king; the strings to be pulled by Angmar, of course.


	16. The Cave

"My king, he must die!" Maeglin exclaimed angrily.  
"All in good time," Melkor said, watching Feanor from a window. The High King prowled the shore, watching for any sign that an attack was coming.  
"Let me slay him, king!"  
"No," Melkor snarled. The dark elf was starting to get on his nerves. I wish I could trade him for Feanor, he thought. Ah…now that's an idea! "There are rocks by the river," the Dark Vala said. "Stone him to death."  
Maeglin looked suspicious at first, but then bowed, a malicious smile on his face. "As you wish, sire."  
This should do the job, Melkor thought, watching as Maeglin and Feanor exchanged insults before exchanging rocks. Maeglin has the better aim, Melkor thought. He may also have better range. If everything works out, Feanor will have nowhere left to go but the cave.   
*  
Another rock hit him, this time in the chest. Gasping, Feanor stumbled back.  
"If ever you should see your precious Silmarils again," Maeglin shouted, "may you be burned to death by them!"  
"Your father darkens the name of all elves, and your mother was a whore!" Feanor taunted.  
Snarling in fury, Maeglin threw another rock.  
Dammit, Feanor thought. The land around here has no good protection, save for the cave.   
"Run, coward!" Maeglin snarled.  
The feeling of ice crept back into Feanor's bones as Morgoth himself appeared, scowling at Maeglin.  
"Idiot!" he snarled. "I can see plainly that if I want something done I must do it myself!"  
What's he talking about? Feanor wondered.  
Stretching out his hand, bolts of black lightning struck the ground around Feanor.  
"Run, little elf!" the Dark Vala called. "Run for your life!"  
One bolt grazed his leg, and Feanor gasped in pain. I can't survive this, he thought. The cave. I have to go to the cave.  
Strange. As he ran into the cave, the lightning bolts ceased. Feanor was sure that Morgoth would still try to kill him. Perhaps the cave offered some magical protection?  
As he stood in the darkness of the cave, Feanor thought about his options. He could not return to the world outside. That much was obvious. But Mandos had warned him about venturing into the cave.  
It was no shallow cave he had run into, but a great tunnel. How far it extended, Feanor had no idea, and he had no desire to find out.  
Morgoth will not just let me live out eternity here, Feanor thought. He will continue to attack me until I am dead. Whatever lives in this cave, it cannot be as bad as the Dark One.  
Steeling himself, Feanor continued down the dark tunnel, jumping at the slightest noise. Water dripped from the ceiling and lichen and moss grew on the walls. Otherwise it was utterly quiet and no animals could be seen. In fact, there was nothing but moss, water, and rocks. And the darkness, Feanor added. It seemed nearly palpable, this all-consuming darkness.  
And then, suddenly, he reached the end of the cave. There was no warning. One moment was walking through the darkness, and the next he had hit his head on the back of the cave.  
Cursing, Feanor stumbled back, rubbing his sore forehead.  
Lying Vala, Feanor thought bitterly. What a fool Mandos is! There's nothing here. Nothing at all, unless the moss likes the taste of elf-flesh.   
Sitting down with his back to the cave wall, Feanor examined his surrondings. The cave extended perhaps a quarter of a league, and was perhaps ten or twelve feet in diameter. There could be nothing lurking in the shadows. He had thoroghly explored the cave simply by walking the length of it.   
"Damn the Valar," Feanor growled, shivering in the cold.   
There was a slight noise a few feet away and Feanor jumped to his feet. Was something here after all?   
Approaching cautiously, Feanor frowned in puzzlement when he saw saw a beautiful young woman lying among the rocks.  
She was a gorgeous elf-maid with long black hair, creamy skin, and eyes that must have been wonderful to behold if they were open. She moved a little from side to side.  
"Are you all right?" Feanor asked, kneeling down beside her. Perhaps there was something in this cave. The woman had clearly been attacked. There were small cuts, perhaps from the rocks, all over her body. Her dress was badly torn and her shoes were gone.  
"Who are you?" she asked, opening her eyes. They were a brilliant dark blue, as deep and bright as the midnight sky.   
"A friend, I suppose," Feanor said, gently lifting her from the rocks. "What happened to you?"  
She looked away, obviously distressed. "I am so cold," she whispered.  
Setting her down on smoother rock, Feanor removed his shirt and wrapped it around her shoulders.  
The cave air was quite cold, but Feanor didn't notice it. He had not lain with a woman since Nerdanel all those years ago. Over an Age, he thought bitterly. And here was this beautiful, exquisite elven beauty.  
No, he reminded himself. She is injured, distraught. She would not want you.  
The elf looked up at him with eyes fairly glowing. "I am still cold," she said. "And I have been so lonely all these years." She shrugged off Feanor's shirt, looking at the High King with lust in her eyes.  
Well, well, well, Feanor thought. The lady asks for me, how can I refuse?  
"What a strong elf you are," the woman whispered seductively, caressing Feanor's chest as he lay her down on a pile of their clothes.  
"You are not weak yourself," Feanor commented, noticing the strong grip with which she clung to his arms.  
"You are so kind," the woman whispered as Feanor kissed her. "So strong, so warm, so alive."  
Everything happened very fast. When Feanor looked down at the woman, he found he was actually looking up at her. She was smirking, her eyes darker than the cave glinting. Her skin was a striking light gray. Her hair was the same as her eyes though; dark as pitch.  
"Who are you?" Feanor gasped. This was no elf!   
"You are strong and charismatic," the woman said, "but you are not wise. If you were, you would have heeded Mandos. You would never have come here."  
"Who are you?" Feanor demanded again. "What are you? A fiend of Morgoth's?"  
"I do not belong to him!" the woman snarled, standing up. She towered over Feanor. The darkness of the cave coelesced to form a midnight gown around her. Her eyes flashed with anger and the power of the ancients.  
"Maia," Feanor gasped in horror.  
"Greater than all the Maia," the woman said. "Greater than all the Valar as well!"  
Feanor tried to stand up, but he found he was stuck to the ground. Glancing at his arms, he saw sticky white strands holding him in place.  
"I am Ungoliant," the woman said.


	17. Battle for Weathertop

"By order of the king, the lord of these lands must surrender all power to Arthedain!" the herald told the horseman, disguising his terror as best he could.  
"By what right?" the horseman asked.   
"By the right of King Argeleb, son of Malvegil, the Valar rest his soul," the herald said. "The line of the Dunedain has died out in Rhudaur, and so they must accept the rule of King Argeleb, heir of Elendil, High King of Arnor!"  
The horseman scoffed. "Rhudaur refuses to accept Argeleb as its king," they said. "Return to your master and tell him as much."  
"He will declare war!"  
"Then let us have war!" the horseman snarled. The horse reared threateningly and the herald sped away back toward Arthedain.  
Khamul chuckled to herself as she watched the herald flee. It was a good year, she decided. Rhudaur was theirs, Cardolan was soon to fall as well, and Arthedain was all in an uproar. Yes, there would be a battle soon, but it was a battle that they were sure to win.  
Returning to Angmar, Khamul passed by the capital of Rhudaur, admiring the banners they now flew. Not Arnor, she thought, but Angmar. And no one has even guessed who's behind it.  
As she walked through the fortress, Khamul found herself whistling. It was a rare indeed when she was in this good of a mood. Destroying Rhudaur must've made me happier than I thought, she mused.  
"You sound pleased indeed, great lady," a small maid said. All the other servants had scattered when Khamul had appeared, save for this one alone.  
"Rhudaur has fallen and Argeleb's about to do something momentously stupid," Khamul said. "I can smell battle as surely as I can smell Arthedain's defeat."  
"You sound most confident, my lady," the maid said. "I know it is well-deserved."  
Khamul shrugged. "What do you care?" she asked. "You're just a maid, nothing more."  
"Ah, but someday I shall rise, my lady," the maid said. "Perhaps even to fight along your side."  
Khamul's eyes narrowed. This was a bold maid indeed, she thought. "Do you have some skill with the sword?"  
"No, my lady, but I would like it very much if you would teach me some," the maid said eagerly.  
"Very well then," Khamul said, nodding. After all, why not? The maid was a loyal servant of Angmar, and Angmar was going to need all the soldiers they could get for the upcoming war.  
*  
"You're getting good at this," Khamul commented as she and the maid sparred in the courtyard.   
"You are too kind, great lady," the maid, Cala, said. "I am a mere novice compared to you."  
"You've learned much," Khamul said, smiling. She took great pride in watching her apprentice slowly become a fine swordswoman.  
"So sorry to interrupt," Aica said, walking into the courtyard. "Morion wants to see you," she said to Khamul.  
"What about?"  
"We'll be attacking a fortress called Amon Sul in a few days," Aica said. "Apparently the king himself is there."   
"And no doubt you want to be the one to kill him," Khamul said. "Anarion and his heirs are yours to kill. Isildur and his descendents are mine."  
"You can't have a monopoly on the slaughter of royalty," Aica snapped.   
"We'll see who kills him then, shall we?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes, we will," Aica said. "Who's that anyway?" she asked, gesturing at Cala.  
"Her name is Cala," Khamul said. "She used to be a maid, and now I am teaching her how to fight."  
Aica snorted. "What for?" she asked.   
"We can always use more skilled soldiers," Khamul said.  
Aica shrugged and walked off.  
"Pardon me, my lady, but I have little love for her," Cala said.  
"Neither have I," Khamul growled.  
With Cala at her right hand, Khamul, Morion, and Vorea rode off from Angmar to the great fortress of Amon Sul, called Weathertop.  
"If we take the fortress," Morion explained, "then the Weather Hills are ours."  
"And that's good," Khamul said, nodding, but failing to understanding the significance.   
"That means we can take Cardolan with less difficulty," Morion explained.  
"I see you don't say 'with ease', just 'with less difficulty'."  
"The blood of the Dunedain is weak in Cardolan, but the people there are strong. They have no love of us; they will put up a fight."  
"And we'll crush them. It's as simple as that."  
Morion nodded, but did not answer. Instead, he gazed ahead, frowning.  
"What is it?" Khamul asked, standing up in her stirrups to get a better look.  
"I can see Amon Sul. It is poorly fortified."  
"What are you talking about?" Khamul snapped. "They wouldn't be such idiots."  
"It seems weak," Morion said. "I do not think they have kept up with repairs through the ages."  
"I don't trust them," Khamul said. "By all accounts this Argeleb is a slippery fellow. How do we know he isn't tricking us?"  
"We don't. Still…it seems strange."  
"Let's just attack. Then we'll see what kind of surprise he's got planned for us. Who knows? We might have one or two up our sleeves."  
Morion smiled. "I think I just might," he said.  
The order was given to attack and the orcs surged forward, howling bloody murder and baring their fangs.  
"Disgusting creatures," Cala commented.  
"Quite," Khamul agreed. "Still, useful."  
A barrage of arrows scythed through the first ranks of orcs, killing hundreds.  
"Ah," Morion muttered. "They've got archers stationed in the brush around the fortress. Clever, Argeleb, very clever. But I fear it is fall."  
"What?" Khamul asked, glancing at the chief ringbearer in puzzlement. "Fall? The season? What does that have to do with anything?"  
"It is tinder-dry," Morion said, gesturing to the land. "One spark and I fear it would go poorly with the hidden archers."  
"You have the mind of a mass murderer," Khamul commented.  
"Apparently I do," Morion said with a sigh of regret. He lifted his hands, spreading them toward the tower. His eyes rolled back in his head as he began to whisper in a strange tongue.  
"What are you doing?" Khamul snapped, the theatrics unnerving her.  
Morion did not answer, but continued in whatever language he was speaking. Suddenly, a great fire sprang up around Amon Sul. There were screams of pain and shock from the soldiers stationed around the tower. The orcs shrieked with glee, pointing and laughing as flaming soldiers tried to run for their lives, only to fall and smolder.  
"How did you do that?" Khamul asked.  
"Magic," Morion said.  
"That was both impressive and effective," Vorea said. "And the survivors of this night will remember our power."  
Khamul grinned. "Arnor is falling," she said.  
As Argeleb's army fled the burning tower, the forces of Angmar charged after them, cutting them down left and right.  
In between indiscriminant killing, Khamul crossed blades with a trained swordsman on horseback. He was good, and he had a fierce light in his eyes that caused Khamul to momentarily pause.  
"I will not let you ruin my work, Nazgul!" he snarled in rage, very nearly foaming at the mouth.  
Well, well, well, Khamul thought. The king himself, or I'm a fool. "Well met," she sneered. "And well ended as well."  
They fought for a moment, but as Khamul leaned forward, Argeleb's horse reared back, startled and terrified by the aura of the ringbearer.  
"Valar damn it all!" Argeleb cried in despair as Khamul stabbed him through the heart.  
"Another one," Khamul said with a smile. "What's that now? Isildur, Elendur, Ciryon, Aratan, and now Argeleb! Why, I've killed Isildur and four of his descendents!"  
"I do not believe we can dwell on that victory," Vorea said grimly, riding up.   
"Why not?" Khamul asked. "The fortress is ours. Sure, it's burning, but the army's scattered."  
Vorea said nothing but pointed toward the horizon.  
"Valar damn it all," Khamul muttered as armor of Dunedain and elves flashed brightly in the rising sun.


	18. Join the Light

"It was almost a victory," Aica said.   
"Not enough of one," Morion said as he paced back and forth.  
"It wasn't just the Numenoreans!" Khamul grumbled. "It was the cursed elves as well! How'd they manage that?"  
"An alliance," Morion said. "Argeleb sent his son, Arveleg, to Lindon to rally the elves. I think he had a feeling we were coming."  
"It was only the most logical place we would attack," Vorea said. "Any fool knows the strategic value of Amon Sul."  
"That still doesn't explain why he was so ready for us," Morion said.  
"He wasn't that ready for us," Khamul argued. "Argeleb was killed, his army scattered, and it was only for that freak arrival of reinforcements that kept that fortress out of our hands."  
"I still don't like it," Morion said. "The army was delayed by a broken bridge, our spies have told me. If that hadn't occurred, they would have been able to join Argeleb's forces and we would have been utterly crushed."  
Khamul scowled and glanced at Aica. The northern woman was staring back at her. Suspicion was on both of their faces.  
"We are not going to turn on each other," Morion warned.  
"We aren't," Aica said with a false smile.  
Khamul snorted and left the room to take a walk around outside. She was furious at the thwarting of their plans. And now this news of a possible spy! It made her blood boil.  
As she walked the road peasants fled at her approach. A few gave her shaky bows, but most just kept their distances.  
As it should be, Khamul thought with a smile. She relished the fear the townspeople gave off.   
Then, something caught her eye. It wasn't just the flash of a familiar face, but the feel of something more than terrified peasant.  
"Hey!" Khamul shouted, running after the mysterious person.  
"Ah, Khamul, I was beginning to wonder when we would meet again," Gandalf said with a smile.   
"You," Khamul hissed.  
"Yes, it is I."  
"You're the one who warned Argeleb!" Khamul accused.  
"Of what?"  
"You told him we were coming! You've been spying on us!"  
"My plans did not exactly work out, did they?" Gandalf said sadly. "Argeleb is dead."  
"But Weathertop is still there!"  
"Yes, and I intend for it to remain there for a long time to come."  
"I don't think that will be happening," Khamul hissed.   
"You would fight me?" Gandalf asked, frowning. "I suppose you were right then. We have met again, and we are on opposite sides."  
"We always were to begin with!"  
"I thought there was some good in you, Khamul. Some good in all of the ringbearers."  
Khamul stopped, momentarily struck. He called us ringbearers, she thought. Not Nazgul, not ringwraiths. Ringbearers.  
"It is not too late to come to the light," Gandalf said. "The Valar are merciful beings. Fight for truth and justice. I said you had a high destiny, and I do not think I am wrong."  
"And that high destiny'll only come to pass if I join you?" Khamul sneered. "What do you offer? Not immortality, I'll wager! Not invulnerability! Not power! Not the strength to avenge my people!"  
"Hyarmendacil is dead now," Gandalf said. "He has been dead for many years."  
"I don't care!" Khamul snarled. "He and all his kind deserve to die for what they've done!"  
"You will be doing the same to them as they did to your people," Gandalf said sternly. "Is that what you wish?"  
Dammit! Khamul thought furiously. He's right, damn him. Do I care what happens to the people of Gondor? No. But I'm not just going to line up all the citizens and cut their heads off.   
"If they die as causalities of war, then that's fine," Khamul said. "I'm not going to murder them though."  
Gandalf nodded, smiling slightly as if she'd confirmed something he'd guessed.   
"I will not join you," Khamul said.  
"Then we shall remain on opposite sides," Gandalf said. "Kill me then, if that is what you deem is right."  
"Get out!" Khamul snarled. "Leave! Get out of Angmar!"  
Now it was Gandalf who looked puzzled.   
"Get out!" Khamul shouted. "I won't let you leave a second time! Go on, get out! And don't you dare think this is some kind of weak womanly feeling! I'm telling you to clear off because I think you might be useful in the future!"  
Gandalf smiled again and started walking quickly away. "Remember, Khamul!" he called back. "A high destiny! Remember!"  
"Go back to the Valar!" Khamul shouted at him.  
As she walked back to the fortress, Khamul thought about what Gandalf had offered. Join the light, stupid to be sure. But why had she let him live? Sauron would have appreciated it if the old man was dead. Was it to spite Sauron?  
Partly, Khamul thought. And partly to make sure all my bases are covered in case something goes horribly wrong with Sauron.


	19. Imladris Besieged

It was raining, misty, and muddy as the orc army descended into the vale of Rivendell.   
Oh, this was a really stupid idea, Khamul thought, keeping her eyes out for any elven snipers. Who thought this up? Probably Aica; she has idiotic ideas like this.  
"Is this wise?" Cala asked.  
"No," Khamul said. "It's stupid, and that's all it is."  
"I see."  
"No, you don't. We are going to lay siege to the greatest elven stronghold – discounting Lorien – in all Middle-Earth. While we're fighting Cardolan and Arthedain. Does that sound mad to you?"  
"I must confess it does. Although, that would keep the elves out of the picture," Cala pointed out.  
"Yeah, that's probably what they were thinking," Khamul grumbled, glaring around at the trees. "And we haven't run into a single elf yet."  
"A good thing, surely?"  
"No, because it means they know we're coming. I don't like that."  
"We have not been attacked yet. Perhaps our force is superior."  
Khamul shook her head. "Elves are a limited resource. They're judging our numbers and figuring out where our weak spot is."  
"And then they will attack?"  
"Exactly. What we need to do before then is lay siege to their precious Rivendell. No one goes in and no one gets out. And then I can get back to Angmar and destroy Weathertop once and for all!"  
"It has become an obsession with you, I see," Cala said.   
"What, the destruction of Weathertop?"  
"No, the destruction of Isildur's heirs. I believe you want Arveleg to be there when you attack."  
"You'd be right," Khamul said. "I want him to watch as his precious fortress is torn to the ground, and then I want to kill him."  
"What great insult did Isildur do you that you must take such terrible revenge?"  
"He was rather rude," Khamul said. "And Sauron wanted him as chief ringbearer."  
"Eh? Then Lord Morion was not the first choice?"  
"No," Khamul said, shaking her head. "Very much not. Sauron was incredibly displeased to have to give him a ring."  
"Why did he?"  
"There was an incident," Khamul said.  
"I see," Cala said gravely.  
The army descended into the valley. They marched through the forest. They arrived at the very gates of Imladris itself. And there were no snipers, no traps, nothing.  
"I do believe we have either caught them entirely by surprise, they have fled, or they are all behind those gates prepared for a siege to rival that of the Barad-dur," Khamul said.  
"The siege part, I think," Cala said.  
Khamul nodded. "Likely," she muttered. She stood up in her stirrups, trying to get a look over the gate. "These lands now belong to the realm of Angmar!" she shouted. "Surrender!"  
For a moment there was silence, but then a figure appeared on the ramparts, glaring down at Khamul and the army.   
Who would have thought? Khamul thought smugly. The herald becomes the lord.  
"You have no right to our land," Elrond said sternly. "Leave now or fall to elvish steel!"  
"I see no elvish steel!" Khamul called. "And these lands are part of Rhudaur, which is now under the jurisdiction of Angmar!"  
"We are an independent nation."  
"I don't think so!"  
Elrond sighed, clearly tired of pointless arguing. "I give you one last warning: leave!"  
"And I give you one last warning as well! Surrender!"  
There was a volley of arrows, killing some dozen or so orcs, and before Khamul could respond, Elrond was gone from the wall.  
"Dammit," she muttered. What a kill that would be! Elrond himself!  
But it was not to be. The orcs set up trenches and barricades around the elven stronghold as Khamul watched, but never did the elves show themselves except to shoot a few arrows down at the invaders before disappearing again.  
"This is no way to fight a war," Khamul grumbled.  
"Is there a right way?" Cala asked.  
Khamul frowned, suspecting her young apprentice was mocking her. "No," she said. "But…damn, but this just…argh, I hate sieges."  
"Can we trust the orcs to continue the siege properly?" Cala asked.  
"No," Khamul scoffed. "Someone needs to be watching over them at all times. Orcs are ridiculously stupid creatures."  
"You must defeat Arveleg," Cala said. "I will stay here," she offered.  
"You're still young," Khamul said. "I don't know if you would be able to handle it all."  
"I am not so young," Cala said. "And I learn things quickly. You have taught me much, Khamul. Let me show you how grateful I am by bringing you the Lord Elrond's head."  
Khamul smiled. "And then you can be the scourge of the elves just like I'm the scourge of the heirs of Isildur."  
"Exactly," Cala said.  
Khamul nodded. "Seems fair enough," she said. "Just don't fail me," she warned.  
"I will not, my captain," Cala promised.


	20. Weathertop Destroyed

"You're back soon," Morion noted as Khamul walked in.  
"Rivendell is besieged, and I left Cala in charge."  
Morion raised an eyebrow. "In charge of a horde of orcs and trolls?"  
"Exactly. The elves are lying low, for the moment anyway. I think they expect us to leave the moment things get boring."  
"They will be wrong then."  
"Fatally so," Khamul agreed. "So, where are we on the plans for attacking Weathertop?"  
"In two weeks the king will be speaking with a representative of Cardolan there," Morion said.  
"Powerful representative?"  
"The king's own brother."  
"I see," Khamul said. "Very powerful."  
"Exactly."  
"I presume that's when we're going to attack?"  
"You presume correctly," Morion said. "The number of orcs we have is astonishing; we will crush them. This time, not even if all Lindon emptied would there be able to defeat us."  
"Weathertop's well-guarded though," Khamul said. "And now it'll be by both Arthedain and Cardolan."  
Morion shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said.  
Khamul raised an eyebrow. "Really? We've reached that level of strength?"  
Morion smiled. "And more," he said. "We might be able to take Cardolan as well, but I don't want to overextend ourselves."  
"Oh no, we wouldn't want to do anything like that."  
"I know you believe in quick, decisive action, but sometimes things need to be examined closely before action is taken."  
Khamul snorted. "And sometimes action needs to be taken before the opportunity has passed!"  
"Cardolan will only grow weaker. We lose nothing by delaying."  
"We allow Arthedain time to reinforce Cardolan!"  
"Khamul, the way I have planned it, Arthedain will be in no position to reinforce anyone for some time to come."  
"That good, eh?" Khamul asked, grinning.  
"That good," Morion said, nodding.  
*  
It was night. Sneak attacks always happened at night, Khamul noticed. All around her were stealthy orcs, slinking closer and closer to Weathertop. The fortress on the hill shone with torches, and Khamul could nearly hear the laughter of a feast. Last one they'll enjoy, she thought.  
Vorea was leading the attack on Weathertop, which irked Khamul. "Leave Arveleg to me," she'd told the one-eyed ringbearer, but Vorea had simply shrugged. "I will do what I can," she'd said. No more though.  
Khamul was leading a portion of the army through Cardolan to burn and pillage what they could. A portion. Ha. It was over ten thousand orcs. That was no portion; it was an army.  
Morion gave the signal, setting fire to the fortress itself this time, and Vorea charged forward with a wild warcry.  
Snarling to her orcs, Khamul took them past the fortress and trampling through the small houses where soldiers were stationed to keep watch on the border. Much good it did.  
On they ran through the land, burning as they went. Khamul on her horse stayed well in front of the army, but would occasionally glance back to see the burning homes and screaming people.  
We have won a great victory, she thought.  
And then a horse very nearly collided with hers.  
"Damn you!" Khamul snarled, nearly thrown from her saddle as her horse reared in fright.  
"What devilry is this!" the rider growled. "Orcs abroad in Cardolan, and Amon Sul thrown down! And you! Who are you? Declare yourself at once!"  
Khamul simply smiled. It was a strange way of speech the rider had, and his eyes were so very bright. "I can guess who you are," she said.  
The man frowned and his hand went to his sword.  
"You are Arveleg," Khamul said, attempting to take the man's head off with one blow of her sword.  
"And you are – unless I am deceived – the fiend who murdered my father!" Arveleg snarled, blocking her blow.  
"It was on the field of battle; it certainly wasn't murder!"   
Arveleg did not reply, but very nearly cut Khamul's arm off.   
"You're fast," Khamul snarled, all her attention focused on fighting the man. He was very good. "But I am a ringbearer, and all your strength and steel is for naught. I am invulnerable. You can't so much as scratch me!"  
"I care not for your prophecies!" Arveleg shouted. "I shall avenge my father! I shall…" He ceased to speak as Khamul's sword went through his heart and out again.  
"I don't think so," Khamul said.


	21. Kin-Strife

Cardolan ravaged, Arveleg dead, Amon Sul destroyed, Ceure read from her villa on the outskirts of Osgiliath. Well, it seems that someone's getting something done.  
As far as Ceure could tell, the only interesting thing that had happened around here in the last thousand years was Hyarmendacil and his massive expansion of Gondor. It had stretched from Mirkwood to Umbar. Now it was shrinking, its power weakening. Oh, this new king was trying to do something about it, but he had inherited a weakened kingdom.  
Someone knocked on her door and Ceure hastily hid her letter. "Coming!" she called, hurrying to answer it.  
It was the dashing prince who had been taking a fancy to her. Ceure smiled. It was a fine thing to be sought after even when one was perhaps a thousand times the seeker's age.  
"My lady," the young man said with a bow, "I bring you flowers."  
"How kind of you," Ceure said, taking the flowers. "Please, come in. Is there something you wanted?"  
"Actually, my lady, there is," the young man said, walking in and seating himself at Ceure's table.   
"What is it?" Ceure asked, setting the flowers in a vase she had ready for just such an occasion.  
"I wondered what you thought of this new king," the young man said.  
"Eldacar? Why, I think he is a fine king," Ceure said.  
"Have you not heard then?"   
"Heard what?" Ah! Now here was something that would be interesting!  
The young man leaned close. "He is a halfbreed," he hissed. "His mother was of an Easterling tribe! He is not fit to rule descendents of proud Numenoreans! Why, I can see the blood of Numenor in you as plain as day! A lady such as yourself is more fit to rule than him!"  
Ceure nodded, not sure whether she was being complimented or insulted. "You do not like Eldacar, Castamir?" she asked.  
"Indeed I do not!" Castamir hissed. "He may be my blood-relative by some long-forgotten generation, but I care not for it! He is unworthy of ruling over Gondor, and many others agree with me!"  
"That is indeed fascinating," Ceure said, "but I fail to see what part I play in it."  
Castamir smiled. "There is something special about you, my lady. You have been here since I was born, and well before that, too. And before that? Why, I think you spent some time in Minas Anor. And Minas Ithil before that. Taking all things into account, you may well be an immortal Vala!"  
Ceure laughed, albeit hollowly. "You jest!" she exclaimed. "I am a woman of Numenorean blood, true enough, but see for yourself my age! Look at me! I am no young spry creature, but a dignified woman of late middle-age. I am old, that is true, but I do not think it is a crime!"  
Castamir laughed as well. "You are a fine liar!" he exclaimed. "What are you then? Tell me. Maia? Not a Vala, I think. Some other immortal being? Or," And he leaned close, "are you one of the forgotten Nine?"  
"What are you talking about, you foolish boy?" Ceure asked.  
"The Nine. The Ringwraiths. Nazgul. Are you one? Fear not! I shall not tell a soul. I just wish to know."  
"I am not," Ceure said stiffly. "And I find such accusations offensive. Leave my presence immediately!"  
Castamir smiled and turned to go. "I warn you, lady whoever you are, blood will run in the streets of Osgiliath tonight. The king shall flee for his life and I will rise to power. Choose your alliance carefully. I have in my heart room for all of the Nine."  
Shaking her head, Ceure kept a neutral expression until the door closed behind Castamir.  
Exhausted, she sank down into a chair. "What a clever little monster," she muttered.   
The blood did run in the streets that night. Castamir led his rebels to victory, ousting king Eldacar and his family, well, most of his family.   
"What do you want?" Ceure asked, cracking the door to her villa open.  
"My lady," Castamir said, bowing. There was a small squadron of soldiers behind him, and a bound child.  
"So you won," Ceure said. "Is that Prince Ornendil?" she asked, glancing at the shivering child.  
"Tragically, he and his father became separated," Castamir said. "I think I'll look after him for a while. Or rather, I'd appreciate it if you'd look after him for me."  
"Me?" Ceure asked.  
"Yes, you. Ruling a city and crushing rebellion is difficult work. Watching a child is far beneath me. Besides, I can think of no better guardian…Ulari."  
Ceure frowned. How dare the filthy Man use the elven tongue! He claimed Numenorean ancestors, but he was still a lesser being than the great sea lords. And how dare he call her a ringwraith in front of everyone!  
Snaking out a hand, she seized Ornendil and pulled him into the house. "Get out of my sight," she spat at the usurper king, slamming the door in his face.  
"What's happening?" Ornendil asked quietly as Ceure cut away his bounds.  
"Your family's fled," Ceure said.   
"They left me behind?"  
"I don't know what happened," Ceure said. "I doubt they meant to."  
The prince closed his eyes. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, but he seemed a great deal older. "So I'm alone," he said. "And Castamir is king now."  
"He won't stay that way for long," Ceure promised. "No one will stand for that bastard on the throne."  
"He'll kill Father!" Ornendil exclaimed and made a break for the door, but Ceure caught his shoulder. "No," she said quietly. "You mustn't leave this house, understand? Castamir will kill you." She hoped Castamir hadn't fallen so far that he would murder a child, but you never knew. Power did strange things to a man's mind…  
*  
"Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!"  
"Yay! Burn it!"  
There was a thunderous crash and the great dome collapsed in a spray of molten glass and sparks. There was applause from the gathered rebel audience. The soldiers, now well and truly drunk, roared their approval, while Castamir scowled from a distance.  
"Ignorant pigs!" he snarled, spitting. "The Dome of Stars, destroyed!"  
"It can be rebuilt," his general said.   
"No, never like it used to be." Castamir sighed and turned his face away from the devastated building. "Eldacar used to spend so much time in there. I was looking forward to see what kept him occupied. I guess I'll never know."  
As the flames leapt higher into the night, a shadow ran out of the burning building and down the dark streets. It clutched something to its breast, all that it could find. So little, so pitifully little… It desperately hoped its sister wouldn't be mad.


	22. She Who Arises in Might

"How did the battle go?" Morion asked, hardly glancing up from a stack of papers.  
"Horribly," Khamul spat, shrugging off her cloak and throwing it over a chair.  
"Would you care to elaborate on that?"  
"How old is Araphor?"  
"Not very."  
"Exactly. He was only eighteen when this whole damn thing started, but he still kept us out of the North Downs. We were a mile away from Fornost!"  
"We've been over this many times. What happened now?"  
"Cirdan joined him and pushed us back to the Old Forest. There're some Cardolan people hiding out there, but we'll soon see them off."  
Morion looked up sharply. "Cirdan? He joined them?"  
"Yes, so?"  
"The elves are joining the Men to push us back."  
Khamul nodded.   
"How goes the siege in Imladris?"  
"Fine, as far as I know."  
"As far as you know?"  
Khamul shrugged. "Cala hasn't returned, and I get an orc now and then telling me that nothing's happening."  
"Have you gotten an orc recently?"  
"Well…no."  
"Then maybe you should go see what's going on."  
"Maybe I will!" Khamul snapped. "But you'll be hard pressed to find another commander for your army! Or do you want to lose to Isildur's brood?"  
"Vorea!" Morion called.  
"Yes, sir?" the one-eyed warrior asked, walking into the room.  
"Khamul's going on a trip to Imladris. Can you take over command of the army?"  
"I believe so, sir."  
"Good. Apparently I can find another commander," he told Khamul, who ground her teeth and seethed.  
In less than an hour she was on a horse and heading for Imladris. "Come on, you flea-bitten nag!" she shouted, slapping the reins. "Faster! I need to get back before anything happens!"  
Vorea'll probably win the war, she thought furiously. Sauron'll make her lieutenant. They'll all forget me.  
Ah, what do I care? Sauron'll fall one day, and so will all the others. Morion's made himself a target as king of Angmar. Sorry, Witch-King of Angmar. Apparently they don't take kindly to his magic.  
The horse sped across the land. It was one of the ensorcelled horses from Vorea's land. It could go without food or water or rest for days and days, and in seemingly no time at all, Khamul saw the familiar forest that housed the hidden haven of Imladris.  
I wonder if Glorfindel's there, she thought as she slowed the horse. He might be. He might even be aiming an arrow at me now. Well, he'll be in for a nasty shock then.  
There was an abundance of spider webs, but Khamul just brushed them off. Whatever's in Mirkwood must've spread here, she thought. I just hope I don't run into a giant spider. I don't particularly like them.  
As she approached the valley, Khamul drew her sword and watched the woods warily. Something was wrong here. She should've seen orcs by now. Or been ambushed by elves. Had they wiped each other out? And if so, where was Cala? She'd grown rather attached to that former maid.  
She got to the top of the road leading down into the valley, and Khamul saw no lines of orcs. The trenches had been filled in, the barricades torn down.   
"What in the name of the Valar happened here?" she muttered. There was no smoke coming from Imladris, which stood whole and unharmed. It appeared that the entire valley was deserted.  
"My lady!" a ragged voice croaked.  
Spinning around, Khamul looked for the speaker and noticed a person lying near a tree. "Cala!" she exclaimed, jumping down from her horse and rushing over.  
"Khamul," Cala whispered, blood dripping from her mouth.  
"What happened?"  
"The elves…from Lorien…broke the siege."  
Lorien! That bitch Galadriel must've sent them.   
"Elrond led them," Cala gasped. "Forgive me…he slipped out…I didn't notice…"  
"It's in the past now. Where is everyone?"  
"The orcs…dead. But the elves…everyone went to the battle in the west."  
"The west?"  
"They're going to…" Cala gasped, blood trickling from her mouth. She'd been shot full of arrows. It was a miracle she was still alive. "They're going to catch…Angmar between…Cirdan and Elrond."  
Khamul gasped. The perfect strategy. While Angmar's army was fighting Cirdan and Araphor in the west, Elrond and the Lorien elves would come at them from the east."  
"We have to warn them," Khamul said.  
"Not me. I'm…done for. I only managed to live this long…to warn you. Besides…too late. The elves will be there by…tomorrow. Angmar is…doomed."  
"It's not!" Khamul hissed. She might be able to make it to the Old Forest by then… No, who was she kidding? If she could fly, she wouldn't make it in time.  
"Angmar is doomed," Cala repeated. "I'm sorry I couldn't…help you."  
"You did enough," Khamul said as Cala's body went limp.   
Standing up, Khamul brushed a spider web out of her hair and the nasty little pest bit her on the hand.   
"Dammit!" she cursed, crushing the creature. It hurt! Ha! How ironic! The swords of the mightiest kings couldn't hurt her, but this little spider could!   
Khamul took a step towards her horse, then fell down. The world was spinning. She was horribly dizzy, and she thought she was going to vomit.  
You didn't need to kill the spider, came Cala's voice from somewhere in Khamul's head.  
What are you doing? the Haradrim demanded. You're dead!  
Not as much as you would like. Besides, I was never really alive in the first place. I took over that silly maid's body long before you met her. She was dead for months when we met.  
Who are you then? What do you want with me?  
Cala, or the thing that had been Cala, laughed. You want to save Angmar, don't you, little Haradrim?  
Yes! So let me go and let me save them!  
You'll never arrive in time. They're doomed.  
Why are you telling me this?  
Because I can help you, Cala promised.  
I don't think so, Khamul thought. I think you're a liar. I don't know what you are, or were, but I bet it's just a pathetic ghost.  
I am Ungoliant, devourer of light. I am the Spider Queen, wounder of Melkor Morgoth. I am power in the darkness. And I am offering you a deal.  
Why would a Maia make a deal with me? Khamul asked.   
Because Morgoth possesses your leader. Because I can make you the strongest Ringwraith. But most of all, because I can keep Angmar from being crushed.  
What're your terms? Khamul asked. I'm not going to go into a trance like Morion, am I?  
Ungoliant chuckled. Of course not. Just close your eyes.  
They are closed.  
No, they're not. Close your eyes. I'll take care of the rest.  
You aren't going to take over my mind, are you?  
No.  
This isn't going to end with me getting killed, is it?  
One of my children has bitten you, Ungoliant said. That makes you one of mine. And I do not harm my children.  
Well, let's see how long that lasts, Khamul thought and closed her eyes.


	23. The Elves and the Spiders

"Keep after them!" Vorea yelled as she urged her horse forward. "We have got them on the run! After them!"  
"This seems too easy," Aica muttered.  
"What do you know about a battle?" Yanta snapped. "You're just a sneaking spy."  
"I smell a trap," Metima said. "Why are the elves running like that? It almost looks like a formation…"  
"The orcs are completely uncontrollable," Vorea reported. "They will not stay in line but charge after the enemy. The Men are only a little better, but we must press on ahead. This could be our only chance to crush them!"  
"They're here," Morion said suddenly.  
"Who's here?" Metima asked, whirling around.  
"The elves!" Morion shouted. "Lorien! Look!"  
"Lorien?" Vorea gasped, staring in horror as the bright banners of the Noldor rippled in the breeze.   
"No," Yanta whispered. "Valar damn it all!"  
"How many are there?" Vorea asked, standing up in her stirrups to get a better look. An arrow whizzed by her head, missing her by inches.  
"Thousands," Morion whispered as the golden army poured down out of the hills.  
"Retreat!" Vorea bellowed.  
"No!" Metima shrieked, pointing toward the fleeing elf army. "They're through running!"  
The retreating army of Cirdan and Araphor turned and began advancing upon the orcs, who were impaled upon sharp steel.   
"They're going to crush us between the two armies!" Morion yelled. "Sound the retreat, Valar damn it! We have to get out of here!"  
"We cannnot!" Vorea snapped. "They are circling us! There is no way out!"  
The silver army of Cirdan and Araphor and the golden army of Lorien formed a tight circle around Angmar's army, forcing the orcs and Men closer and closer together, while hacking away at them all the while.  
"Bastards!" Yanta cursed.  
"Will Sauron save us?" Metima asked, looking to the sky as if expecting some miraculous rescue.  
"No," Vorea said grimly.   
"But we can't be killed."  
"I do not wish to know what will happen to us then. Lord Morion, do you have any ideas?"  
"No," Morion whispered, staring in horror at the armies.  
"Can you use your magic?"  
"My magic?"  
"Yes, your magic, dammit! Your magic!"  
"She's coming," Morion whispered in horror, staring in the same direction that the elves had come from.  
"Who's coming now?" Aica snapped. "Galadriel herself? Or maybe it's Varda, descended from Taniquetil!"  
"Do not mock the Queen of the Valar," Vorea warned.  
"She's almost here," Morion said. His hand went to his heart.   
"Who is she?" Metima asked. "Is it Khamul?"  
The elf armies broke through the orcs' ranks and several engaged the ringbearers.  
"Fight, damn you!" Yanta yelled at Morion, who sat as if struck by lightning.  
"We can't hold them off forever!" Vorea shouted.  
"She's here," Morion said.  
There was a horrible scream and all heads turned as the fighting momentarily stopped, both sides curious as to the nature of the causer of the scream.  
The ground had opened on one side of the battlefield. Thousands and thousands of spiders were crawling forth, running rampant over the bodies of everyone in their way. They stung and bit the soldiers until they died, and then scurried to find more.   
"They're opening a pathway," Metima murmured.  
"Don't just stand there!" Vorea yelled. "Retreat!"  
Kicking their mounts into a gallop, the ringbearers and surviving soldiers charged through the gap in the enemy's ranks and into the desolate moors of Arnor.  
"Close call," Yanta muttered. "What happened back there anyway? Was that you, Morion?"  
"No," the Witch-King said, shaking his head. "It was not the work of Morgoth. He was confused, terrified, by the arrival of his nemesis."  
"Morgoth, terrified?" Aica asked. "What could possibly hurt him?"  
"Ungoliant," Morion whispered.   
"But…she's dead," Metima said. "The tales say Earendil killed her."  
"And Manwe cast Morgoth beyond the Door of Night," Morion said with a shrug. "Legends do not die so easily."  
"Someone is coming," Vorea warned, drawing her sword as a horseman approached.  
"Khamul!" Metima exclaimed as she recognized the rider.  
"You missed the battle," Yanta said.  
"I'm the reason you're alive!" Khamul snapped, shaking off spider webs. "Damn stuff'll never come off," she muttered.  
"It was you?" Morion gasped. "Ungoliant worked through you?"  
"I guess so. She didn't possess me or anything though. She just…told me what to do."  
"And the spiders obeyed you?"  
"I think it was more of a spell," Khamul said. "Those probably weren't real spiders."  
"It's a shame you didn't arrive sooner," Aica said. She gestured to the tattered remnants of the army. "There's hardly anyone left."  
"I saved your sorry skin," Khamul snapped. "If it weren't for me you'd all be in the dungeons of Fornost right now!"  
"It's just unnerving," Morion said. His hand went back to his heart. "The arrival of Ungoliant is…surprising."  
Khamul could feel a curtain being drawn between them. There was a coldness in the air that wasn't usually there. Morion had been growing distant, true, but that Morgoth's most bitter enemy had worked through Khamul meant that things had changed. They could never be anything more than wary comrades now. Never friends. Morgoth would always make Morion wonder if Khamul was about to attack him.  
Surprisingly, Khamul felt a pang at her heart. I'm sad about this? she thought. That's crazy. I don't care anything for him…do I?


	24. Aica's Second Lucky Rock

"Such a cunning plan," Melkor said, clapping his hands. "Very nice the way you slaughtered those elves. Imaginative."  
Ungoliant smiled as she played with the strands that held her captive. "You're flattering me," she said. "You know as well as I do that I can't hold onto that fiesty Haradrim. I'm lucky I got into her mind for a second. It's long lost now. But what does the great manipulater want?"  
Melkor's eyes went to Feanor, bound and gagged in silky threads. "Him," he said.  
"And in exchange…?"  
Melkor reached down and seized Maeglin. "You want this traitor? I'm sure he's tasty once you get past the rotten bit. But don't worry, that's just his heart."  
Maeglin yelped. "No, Master!" he begged. "Please don't!"  
"Toss him over the river," Ungoliant said. "You have my word I'll give you Feanor."  
"And what good is your word?"  
"Better than yours."  
"It better be," Melkor warned, throwing Maeglin over the river. He landed with a thud on the rocky ground.   
"Master!" he begged. "Why? I served you well!"  
"I was planning to kill you after Gondolin fell. Fortunately, Tuor saved me the trouble."  
"Why?" Maeglin asked. He looked shocked by this betrayal, and Melkor found it ironic that the traitor to thousands couldn't imagine betrayal in others.  
"Give me Feanor," Melkor said.  
"As you wish," Ungoliant said, throwing the elf to the first Dark Lord. "And now, little elf," she hissed, turning to the cowering Maeglin, "I'm hungry."  
Melkor ignored Maeglin's screams as he picked Feanor off the ground and sliced away the webbing. They were as sticky and thick as he remembered them, all those years ago when Ungoliant had imprisoned him and tried to end his life.  
But the Valar cannot die.   
"Good to see you again," Melkor whispered. "Such a shame it's on my territory."  
"Don't touch me," Feanor hissed.  
"Really? Why not?" Melkor ran a hand through Feanor's hair. "I've been waiting for ages. Literally. I think it's time for my revenge."  
*  
"You're back," Aica said with little relish. "I suppose you brought a stone home again."  
"Oh," Ringe said, his face falling.  
"You did! I can't believe you'd be so stupid!" Aica slapped Ringe across the face. "You imbecile! You brought me another rock!"  
"You liked the first one!"  
"A rock! You bastard! We're not on top of the Barad-Dur anymore! I don't need a rock!"  
"I'll get rid of it then," Ringe muttered, starting toward the door.  
"Let me see it," Aica snapped.  
"But you just said –"  
"Let me see it!"  
Ringe held out a large round stone. It was some kind of dark crystal as far as Aica could tell. It was beautiful, and very cold. In the center, it almost looked like there was a small flame burning.  
"I like this rock," Aica said.  
Ringe smiled warily. "I did good then?" he asked.  
"Yes, it's fine. Where did you find it?"  
"I went to Osgiliath, just like you said. I didn't see Ceure there, and I made sure not to draw attention to myself."  
"And what did you see?"  
"There's a civil war going on. Eldacar's been thrown out, and his cousin Castamir's on the throne. They were burning this domed building, and I ran in to see if there was anything valuable."  
Aica frowned. "And the stone was in there?"  
Ringe nodded eagerly. "It was just sitting there in the center of the place."  
"Like it was important."  
"Exactly. But it's just a rock. I thought you might like it though, so I brought it back."  
"Good job," Aica said. "You can go now."  
"Should I tell Morion I went to Gondor?"  
"No," Aica said sharply. "We'll keep that between ourselves."  
"All right."  
As soon as Ringe left, Aica examined the stone closer. Found it all alone in some big important building, huh? she thought. That must mean it's important too. It's a very pretty rock.  
She put her hands on it and tested the weight. Something started to happen in the center of the rock.  
"What –?" She gasped as colors and lights swirled in the center of the stone, expanding to fill the whole orb.  
She felt like she was falling into it. Deeper and deeper into the stone she looked, and she could see things. Valleys, plains, mountains, cities. Everything lay bare before her eyes.  
Is this real? she thought. Am I dreaming?  
Show me Fornost, she thought, focusing her will on the stone. And lo and behold, a city fell into place. The tall towers and fortified keep of Fornost appeared. People milled about in the streets, talking to each other. Aica strained to hear what was being said, but it was like they were talking on the other side of a wall. She caught a word or two, but she could see far better than she could hear.  
The king's palace. I want to see Araphor's palace.  
The scene shifted, and Aica was watching a handsome young man pace back and forth. It was Araphor, king of Arthedain. And he was so close to Aica she could almost touch him. Except they were thousands of miles apart.  
It ended suddenly as Aica's concentration broke. The rock fell to the ground with a crack but didn't break.   
"I saw Fornost," Aica muttered, watching the stone roll to the other end of the room. "I saw Araphor. What is that rock?"  
Whatever it was, it needed to be kept safe and hidden away. Particularly from Khamul.


	25. Death of a Prince

"There aren't as many fires now," Ornendil said, watching Osgiliath from Ceure's window. "I think the city's starting to quiet down."  
"Your father's men have all gone to the mountains by now," Ceure said. "They'll start making trouble for Castamir soon enough."  
"They'll go to Rhovanion," Ornendil said. "Father used to live there when he was a child. Grandmother was one of their people. That's why this happened. That's why Castamir wanted him gone."  
Apparently that the blood of 'lesser men' flowed in Eldacar's veins was the reason for his deposition, but Ceure personally thought that he was a far braver man than Castamir – pure Numenorean blood or no – could ever be.  
"He'll come back," Ceure said. "He'll come back for you."  
"The people of Rhovanion didn't want him to be king in the first place," Ornendil said. "They'll be glad to have him back, but they won't see a reason to fight Castamir."  
"Not even to save you?"  
Ornendil shook his head. "Family means everything to them, but they wouldn't see the point in a suicide mission. And the other tribes wouldn't rally around them just to save me."  
"I'm sorry," Ceure said. She felt responsible somehow. Sauron didn't help Castamir rise, she reminded herself. It's not my fault.   
"I wish there was something I could do," Ornendil said.   
Someone knocked on the door.  
It better not be Castamir, Ceure thought as she hurried to answer it.   
It was Castamir, along with a host of soldiers.  
"Thank you for taking such good care of the young prince," the usurper said, "but I'm afraid I need him."  
"What for?" Ceure demanded.  
"I cannot have Eldacar's eldest son alive and well in Osgiliath. He might become the focal point for the rebels' hopes."  
Alive and well… "You're going to kill him!" Ceure gasped.  
"Yes," Castamir said. "Execute, actually. Now get out of my way."  
"No! I won't let you!"  
Castamir snapped his fingers and two guards rushed forward to seize Ceure. Castamir himself grabbed the prince, who offered no resistance.  
"The tribes wouldn't rally to save me," Ornendil said as he passed Ceure, "but they love vengeance."  
"Would you like to come see the execution?" Castamir asked.  
"Get out of my house!" Ceure snarled.  
"Suit yourself."  
She watched it from her balcony. They were just tiny ants, but Ceure imagined she could see the blood spilling from Ornendil's severed neck and into the cold stone.  
The tribes wouldn't rally to save me, but they love vengeance… Perhaps there was something Ceure could do after all.  
She left the next day at dawn on her magical horse. She didn't stop for anything. The horse vaulted over checkpoints, and she plunged through streams. Past Minas Anor, out of Gondor entirely, and into the Brown Lands.  
The lands deserved their names. The vegetation was sparse and small, and for the most part the soil was bare and cracked. It was a dry desert. And an empty desert as well.  
Ceure rode for days, and then finally she saw bright flags and huge white tents. The Northmen were famed nomads, and they made camp with style.  
"Halt!" a Northman ordered as Ceure got closer.  
Her horse thrashed as she reined it in suddenly. "I've got news for Eldacar, if he's here," Ceure said.  
The Northman's eyes narrowed. "What is it?" he asked.  
"Regarding his son."  
"Ornendil?"  
"Yes."  
"Watch her," the Northman ordered a comrade before hurrying off into the sea of tents.   
"Don't try anything," the second guard warned.  
"I won't," Ceure said. She slid down from the horse and stretched her legs. She'd spent far too long on horseback.  
"You come from Osgiliath?" a man asked as he and the Northman returned. This was Eldacar; Numenor was evident in his face. Ceure pitied him. He was a king from the days of Gondor's glory, doomed to live in the days of its fading.  
"Yes," she said. "I rode day and night to get here."  
"And you have news about Ornendil?" Eldacar asked. His face was worn with grief, and he looked to be expecting more. He wasn't going to be disappointed.  
"I'm afraid Castamir had him executed not five days ago," Ceure said.  
Eldacar closed his eyes. "I thought as much," he said at last.  
"Executed?" one of the Northmen – he looked like the chief - hissed. "He dared to execute a child? And of the king no less?"  
"Castamir is a butcher, plain and simple," Eldacar said. "That's what I've been trying to tell you all along!"  
"He killed your son," the chief said. There was a fierce gleam in his eyes. "He dared to spill the blood of Vinitharya and Vidumavi!"  
"Myself and my mother," Eldacar explained to Ceure. "This could be it," he murmured. "They'll help me now. I just wish it didn't have to come at so high a price."  
"This is an intolerable insult," the chief said. "Send for messengers!" he barked at other Northmen. "Send them to every tribe in the area. We shall avenge Vinitharya's son! We make war on the usurper!"  
Eldacar smiled, but it faded quickly. "I have my army now," he whispered. "I only wished I had my son."


	26. Cold

"Eldacar's got his throne back," Morion said as he read Ceure's letter. "Castamir's dead by the king's hand, but his sons have escaped to Umbar."  
"Umbar," Khamul snarled. "The city that should never have been rebuilt."  
"Yes, I'm sure the Gondorians feel similar now. And because Castamir was master of ships no one can pursue them. The Haradrim are sheltering him, you'll be pleased to know."  
Khamul shrugged. "They're mostly eastern Haradrim," she said. "They moved into the western lands after my people were slaughtered."  
Morion set the letter aside. "And how goes the war with Arthedain?"  
"Fine," Khamul said. "Although it would go a lot better if Cardolan was simply wiped out."  
"I'm working on that," Morion said.   
"Got an idea, do you?"  
"Yes, and I think it's quite good. I'll tell you when I'm done with it."  
There was that coldness again. In the early days he would've eagerly shown her what he was working on. Not so now. Not as Morgoth tightened his grip on his slave.  
What could Khamul do about that though? Nothing. Morgoth was a Vala, even if he was fallen. Khamul couldn't even stand up to a Maia.  
"Anything else of interest?" she asked. "How's Sauron doing in his little forest hideout?"  
"He's successfully terrorizing the elves," Morion said. "But beyond that, very little. He doesn't want to attract the attention of the mighty."  
"And who are these so-called mighty?" Khamul asked.  
"Galadriel, Cirdan, Gandalf, and Saruman," Morion said. "Galadriel and Cirdan you know, but Gandalf and Saruman, I doubt."  
Gandalf Khamul knew, and had in fact given him that name. But she wasn't about to tell that to Morion. This Saruman though…who was he?  
"Who're the last two?" Khamul asked.  
"Gandalf and Saruman are two of the order of the Istari. Wizards. There are five of them, but two have gone into the east, and the last, Radagast, is really no threat at all."  
"I think I've heard of Gandalf before, but who's Saruman?"  
"Saruman is the head of the order," Morion said. "Saruman the White."  
The man from the Gladden Fields! He'd felt strangely powerful for an old man! And he'd been wearing white! Khamul had thought he'd been doing more than looking for buried treasure like the Elendilmir. But if he was a friend of Gandalf's – sworn enemy of Sauron – then why would he be looking for the One Ring?  
"Is he powerful?" Khamul asked.  
"Very," Morion said. "Like Sauron, he and Gandalf are Maiar."  
Khamul hissed. No wonder she'd felt like she was back in Smaug's presence! Gandalf was a Maia! It was a good disguise though. No one would suspect that under the grey cloak and large hat lurked the power of a Maia.  
"What do we do about them?" Khamul asked. "Can they be killed?"  
Morion smiled. "Unlike our lord, their souls are not bound in a metal band. They are all-too mortal. Stab one through the heart, and he will fall."  
"Do you want me to take care of them?"  
"You'd fall in an instant," Morion said. "So far they aren't bothering us, but when they do, you can do something about it. Maybe Ungoliant will even help you."  
"Is that bothering you?" Khamul asked.  
"What?"  
"That Ungoliant's made a bargain with me."  
"No, it's not. Why would you think so?"  
"You seem…tense."  
"I'm not tense," Morion said. "You're imagining things. Go find a chink in Araphor's armor. That should brighten your day."  
Something's eating him up, Khamul thought as she walked toward the barracks. Well, if he won't tell me, I won't know. It's not like I could help him anyway. At least, I doubt I'd be able to.   
"Come on, you worthless scum!" she shouted, sticking her head into the barracks. "Let's go kill some Dunedain!"  
*  
"Your lieutenant is perceptive," Melkor said. "You are tense."  
"And why wouldn't I be?" Morion asked. "Ungoliant loose in the world –"  
"She is not loose in the world."  
"Then what is she? She can act through Khamul!"  
Melkor threw back his head and laughed. "She lost control of your lieutenant long ago! Nearly right after she first showed herself with the spiders! Your lieutenant has far more will than you. We have nothing more to fear from Ungoliant."  
"What would you know?" Morion demanded. "You've been too busy playing with your new captive."  
Melkor smiled. "Yes, I have been busy. And I've enjoyed every minute of it. Like with Luthien. Oh, poor Beren! If only his dear sweet elf told him what we'd done together!" He chuckled. "I doubt history would've treated her so kindly."  
"What do I do about Araphor?"  
"Oh, so I am more than a troublesome voice in your mind now? You are looking to me for advice?"  
"You've fought wars before," Morion said. "I'm skilled in battle, but war…"  
Melkor sighed. "Wait it out," he advised. "Time is on your side. Araphor is perhaps the last strong Arthedain king. Wait until a weak king is on the throne, wipe out Cardolan, and fill it with those little creatures you've been concocting."  
"And then?" Morion asked. "I can't risk Gondor becoming involved."  
"They won't. Arnor and Gondor might as well be on opposite ends of the Sundering Sea for all they talk to each other. Destroy Cardolan, lay siege to Arthedain, strike when there's a weak king, and make sure ties with Gondor are not reconnected."  
Morion nodded, making note of the strategy. "I'm becoming like you," he said quietly. "I can feel the darkness, the cruelty."  
"Banish it then," Melkor said. "Khamul has banished Ungoliant effectively, even if she doesn't know it."  
"Has she slunk back to her cave?"  
"Ungoliant would be slavering for blood by now, and I might've obliged her by offering yours. However..." Melkor glanced pointedly out the window where a large spider web could be see across the river. There appeared to be someone trapped in the web.  
"You cruel bastard," Morion muttered. "To do that even to the dark elf…"  
"Yes, it's horribly cruel. Not half as bad as what I've been doing to Feanor though," Melkor said. "So go back to your world. Fill your hollow heart with warmth," he sneered. "Try and stave off the darkness. It won't work. One day I'll claim you as my own and the Dark Lord will walk the land again!"  
"Keep dreaming," Morion muttered as the Land of the Lost faded from his vision.


	27. The Great Plague

"How can I help you, good sir?" the old shopkeeper asked, tottering over to the customer.  
"I'm terribly sorry to have come so close to closing time," the customer said, checking the store's hours. "I suppose even shopkeepers must shop sometimes."  
"Oh yes, good sir. This is the day when I go off to buy my groceries. But what can I help you with today?"  
"I'm just looking," the customer said. "I'll be gone in a minute." He glanced into a sack of beans, then into a barrel of dried fish. "Very fresh wares."  
"The best in Minas Ithil!" the shopkeeper proclaimed proudly.  
"I'm sure."  
"Is there anything that takes your fancy, good sir?"  
"No, I'm afraid not. Sorry to trouble you." As the customer left, he brushed hands with the shopkeeper, who felt a slight tingle. Curious, that tingle.  
The shopkeeper went to the market that day and brushed hands with hundreds of people. They too felt the tingle. He sold the fish and beans to a soldier stationed in Mordor. He and all his comrades felt the tingle when they ate the food. No one paid it the slightest attention. Not until the fever came, that is.  
The tingle swept across Gondor, traveled south into Harad, and surged up into Rhovanion and Cardolan. King Telemnar and all his family felt the tingle. Most of Osgiliath felt the tingle. The hobbits in Eriador felt the tingle.   
The Great Plague had come to Middle Earth.  
"Nice touch, the tingle," Khamul commented.   
"It's always good to add a personal touch," Sauron said. This was the first time he'd visited Angmar. Always he'd kept a distance so as to keep suspicion from the Witch-King's realm. No one wanted the mighties to think that the Nazgul could be alive and well. Or worse, that Sauron was back.  
"The constant vigilance of Gondor has declined," Sauron announced. "They have abandoned many of their fortifications in Mordor. The plague has called the troops back to the cities to defend them from enemies."  
"Can we return?" Metima asked.  
"Not yet," Sauron said. "The vigilance has declined, but it is still there. And I want Arnor taken care of before we go after Gondor. I feel that it is in Gondor that we shall have to strive the hardest to make it fall."  
"Araphor's dead," Khamul said. "We should move now against Arthedain."  
"No, we should move against Cardolan," Morion said. "The Dunedain have all perished in the plague. We should wipe out the remaining population, leaving Arthedain completely isolated."  
"It's a good plan," Sauron said. "Except that if a king comes to the throne who renews contact with Gondor…" He left the sentence unspoken. It would ruin their plans. Angmar and Sauron could take one, but not both, of the kingdoms.   
"We will isolate Arthedain, and then it will weaken," Morion said. "Constant raids by orcs into their territory will break them. Then we will take Fornost and the Line of Isildur will be broken."  
"You have had a quarrel that has spanned millennia with Isildur's heirs," Sauron said to Khamul. "Therefore, you have the task of destroying them."  
Khamul smiled. "It will be a pleasure," she said. She could imagine, some hundred or more years from now, spitting the last of Isildur's wretched descendents on her sword. The line at last would be ended. Elendil, she had liked. Isildur, she had despised.  
"Good," Sauron said. "I trust you can obliterate Arnor. Meanwhile, I have some business to take care of. I wouldn't want to have Mordor open once more and put nothing in it, would I? Those soldiers of Gondor need something to keep them occupied."  
The next morning, Sauron was gone, but whether he had gone back to Dol Guldor or to Mordor, Khamul didn't know.  
"Go check on the city," Morion ordered her. "Illness, even illness spawned by Sauron, kills indiscriminately."  
It was a grim sight. Carn Dum itself hadn't been affected too badly – only the occasional corpse here and there, which were being burned in pyres. But outside the city… The dead outnumbered the living. Bodies were scattered about the land, lying where they had fallen.  
Surely Sauron could have made the plague not come to us, Khamul thought as she rode along a road lined with corpses. Unless this was his plan. Yes, that makes sense. He doesn't want us to move yet, so he cripples us.  
"Do you have food?" a woman asked as Khamul rode by. "Food? There's no one left to farm."  
It's going to be a bitter winter, Khamul thought. We'll lose easily twice as many as we have to plague by famine.  
"The army's been mostly unaffected," Khamul reported to Morion. "The disease doesn't seem to affect orcs or goblins, but the Men are devastated. The graves are deeper than a dwarf's mine! And they're filled to the brim! Overflowing, actually."  
Morion's face grew grim. "We can't launch an invasion then," he said. "You don't suppose Sauron…?"  
"That's exactly what I think," Khamul said.  
"Why would he do that though? He wants Arthedain crushed."  
"And Cardolan, too."  
Morion smiled. "Vorea destroyed them this morning," he said. "As you have noted, our orcs are unaffected by the illness. Vorea led a contingent of them into Cardolan. There were hardly any Men left; they'd all fled to Arthedain. And speaking of Arthedain, I want to know how they've been effected. My spies are all dead, I think."  
"I have to go to Arthedain?" Khamul asked. "I think I'd stick out there. Just a little bit."  
Morion sighed. "Ask Aica to go then," he said.   
Khamul frowned. "I haven't seen her lately. Where is she?"  
Morion shrugged. "I don't keep track of her."  
"What do you do?"  
"Plan this war."  
"And you've done a great job. You would've got everybody killed if it wasn't for me arriving in the nick of time."  
"In case you haven't noticed, both Cardolan and Rhudaur have fallen thanks to my leadership!"  
"And where would you be if it wasn't for Vorea and me? Nowhere! You need us a lot more than we need you!"  
"Really? Because I think that if I was gone, you two would be at each other's throats in no time at all!"  
"If it weren't for you, we would've had Arthedain by the throat by now! Arnor would be in ruins, as would Gondor!"  
"This is what I'm talking about," Morion said. "If it weren't for me, you would've thrown away everything we've worked for. Arthedain would triumph, and we would be destroyed. For over a thousand years we've been working towards the destruction of the Numenorean kingdoms, and you would throw it all away!"  
"I know what I'm doing!"  
"You don't! You're a rash, impatient fool who gets carried away with vengeance! In time we will destroy Gondor! In time we will punish them for what they did to the Haradrim! In time you can slack your bloodlust! But not now!"  
"Then when?" Khamul hissed.  
"When I say so," Morion snapped. "Go find Aica."  
Khamul stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard it shook the frame.  
Morion sighed and rubbed his temples. I can't control her, he thought. One day she's going to do something immensely stupid. It's going to ruin everything.  
I feel so cold. So horribly cold… And…stretched. Like everything's pale and thin, lacking in substance.  
Fill the void, Melkor had told him. With what?   
Morion glanced up at a noise.  
"I've got some reports from Cardolan," Ringe said, holding up a stack of papers.  
Morion's jaw ached. He brushed his tongue against his teeth and discovered the canines had grown long and sharp. Oh Valar, He's taking over my mind, Morion thought in horror. But I can still think clearly. How is that possible?  
"Is this a bad time?" Ringe asked, edging toward the door. The Witch-King's eyes had lost their pupils and were as black as pitch. And the way he was looking at Ringe… The eighth ringbearer didn't want to spend anymore time than necessary in the room.  
"Stop," Morion ordered.  
Ringe froze in his tracks. Just don't move, he told himself.   
Morion moved faster than even an elf. One moment he was sitting behind his desk, the next he was jerking Ringe's head back and sinking black fangs into his neck.


	28. Fill the Void

"Where the Hell are you?" Khamul snapped, throwing open doors and looking for Aica.   
"What're you doing?" Yanta demanded as Khamul walked in on her.  
"Looking for Aica. Seen her?"  
"I haven't seen her for days. First her brother disappeared, and then she's nowhere to be found."  
Khamul frowned and redoubled her efforts. As she was passing by a fairly deserted section of the castle she heard a shout followed by a loud crack.  
"Aica?" she snapped, throwing open the door. A large stone rolled to rest at her feet. "What in the names of the Valar is this?"  
"I don't know what it is!" Aica snarled, walking over to pick it up. "Ringe found it."  
"Any particular reason you've vanished for days?" Khamul demanded, seizing the stone before Aica could reach it.  
"You didn't want me for anything, I don't like any of you, so I didn't see any reason to hang around."  
"Is this magic?" Khamul asked, spinning the stone in her hand. It felt magic. You didn't get a crystal this round and with such strange colors in it without a little something extra.  
"No."  
Which meant it probably was. "Any reason you were throwing it against the wall?" Khamul asked. And as far as she could see, there wasn't a single scratch on it. Made of something harder than crystal then.  
"No," Aica said, scowling. She looked well and truly furious, angrier than Khamul had ever seen her before.  
"What does this do?" Khamul asked, hefting the stone.  
"Nothing."  
"Right. I'm sure." I wonder if she stole it from Morion, Khamul thought.  
Something happened in the center of the stone, and Khamul found her gaze drawn into the orb. Colors and shapes were blending and melding, forming a picture. A scene.  
Ringe lay on the floor with gashes across his throat. Only a thin line of blood trickled from them, and it was already healing. Morion was kneeling over him, doing…ohhhhkay.  
"Valar!" Khamul exclaimed, chucking the stone across the room. It hit the wall, bounced off, and rolled back to her feet.  
"You saw it too," Aica said.  
"Morgoth must've taken over his mind again," Khamul muttered. "I'll go get Vorea."  
"What do we do?" Aica asked. She looked…like she was about to cry. Except Aica didn't cry, she just killed people.  
"Stab him repeatedly and hope Sauron helps us."  
"I like that plan," Aica said, snatching up her sword.  
"By the way, what is that thing?"  
"The stone? I don't know. Ringe found it in a burning building in Osgiliath."  
"What was he doing there?"  
Aica bit her lip and looked sheepish.  
"What was he doing there?" Khamul demanded.  
"I wanted to know what was happening for myself rather than depend on Ceure."  
"So he found a rock that shows stuff."  
"I can see Arthedain in it," Aica said. "I can see anywhere."  
"Arthedain?" Khamul asked. "What's going on now?"  
"The plague didn't affect them much at all. They're still very strong."  
"Damn it all! They could attack us!"  
"Not that strong," Aica said. "Come on!" she snapped. "We've got to find Vorea!"  
"Someone said my name?" the one-eyed warrior asked, glancing into the room. She must've come straight from the training field for she was clad in muddy armor and fully armed. Perfect.  
"Vorea, I think Morgoth's taken over Morion's head again," Khamul said.  
Vorea's face grew grim. "I see. Do you have a plan?"  
"What we did last time should work."  
"Attack him?"  
"Yes," Khamul said.   
"How do you know about this?" Vorea asked as they hurried down the hallway toward Morion's office. "I heard noise in the corridor and came to investigate. Something crashed…"  
"I'll explain later," Khamul said.   
"Are you sure we do not need more ringbearers?"  
"I think Aica could manage it by herself actually," Khamul said, glancing at the seventh ringbearer who was fairly spitting she was so mad.  
Vorea shrugged and hefted her spear. "I wish Lord Sauron was still here," she said. "He could help us."  
"Well, he's not here, is he?" Khamul snapped. "Morion's office is right up there. Everyone ready?"  
"Oh yes," Aica hissed, drawing her sword.  
"I am ready," Vorea said.  
"Then let's go," Khamul said, drawing her sword and steeling herself.  
*  
"Enjoyable, isn't it?" Melkor commented, stroking Feanor's hair. "I particularly like how he's isolating himself. He doesn't need me to ruin his life; he's doing just fine on his own."  
"Shut your lying mouth," Feanor muttered. He'd never felt less like a High King in his life. He was kneeling at Melkor's side as he watched the events of his human slave. I wish I was back in the Void, he thought. Anything is better than this. Although…  
He was tempted to look out the window. It was some comfort to see Maeglin getting drained by always-hungry Ungoliant, but it was cold comfort when Morgoth reached for him.  
Melkor smirked. "You've kept your fiery spirit. I'd anticipated it going out after a while. I suppose I must work harder."  
"You do that."  
"I fear I won't be staying much longer here," Melkor said, ignoring Feanor. "What a shame. I'm quite enjoying your company."  
Feanor shivered and then shuddered in horror as he realized what the Dark Lord meant. He was planning an escape.   
"You can't leave," the elf said. "Manwe –"  
Melkor struck him across the face. "Do not say that name to me," he hissed. "He is powerless in this land. And I have Morion in Arda. Already I have a hold on his mind, and if not for my errant apprentice, I would his body as well. But someday, someday my apprentice's precious Ring will be destroyed. Someday he will lose his grip on his servant. And then I shall creep in and take him. I will walk Arda again!"  
"In a mortal's body," Feanor reminded him. "You can – and will – be killed."  
Melkor laughed and shook his head. "You truly think I would so stupid as to return to Middle-Earth as a mortal?"  
"He's a Man."  
"Yes, but he cannot be slain. My possession of his mind has given him great powers, and one of them is a mighty blessing. No man shall slay him."  
"Then an elf will," Feanor said.  
"You misunderstand me," Melkor said. "No man – no one – will or can slay him."  
Feanor had his doubts about this so-called blessing, but he didn't voice them. No need to give Morgoth pause. Let him continue with his plan. Feanor would watch it fail with glee.  
*  
"What? Are we going to knock politely?" Aica snarled.  
"Oh shut up," Khamul snapped. She took a deep breath and kicked in the door.  
"Valar!" Vorea exclaimed.  
Probably should've filled her in a bit more, Khamul thought. "Don't think, just throw the spear!"  
"I…I do not know. I believe I may hit Ringe."  
Ringe and Morion looked up as the three ringbearers burst into the room. Ringe made a desperate dive for his pants, and Morion lunged at his desk, seizing something beneath a stack of papers. It was a dagger. Khamul almost laughed.  
"This worked last time," Khamul said. "Just hit him, dammit!"  
Vorea – who never missed – threw her spear and it hit the wall, missing Morion by less than an inch. It quivered as it struck the stone, actually embedding itself in the rock.  
"How did you miss?" Khamul screamed. Well, nothing for it now, she thought, lunging at Morion, sword swinging.  
Aica was cursing furiously as she charged Morion as well.   
"And here I thought you were my friends," Morion said furiously, holding the dagger out before him. It was pathetic. A piece of pale metal about a foot in length against swords.  
"Friends with Morgoth? Not likely!" Khamul yelled. She raised her sword to deliver a blow to Morion's head, which hopefully would return him to his senses.  
Morion dodged the main force of the blow, though part of it caught him across the back. The dagger he plunged into Khamul's stomach.  
Fire. White, hot, piercing fire seared her. Gasping, Khamul stumbled back, her sword falling from her hands. It burned. The dagger hurt like nothing she'd ever felt before, not even before the ring.  
"What is this?" she gasped, curling her hands around the hilt, trying to get the horrible piece of metal out of her body.  
But Morion was too preoccupied with Aica to answer. She attacked him viciously, but anger got the better of her, and she made several mistakes.  
With a word and a gesture, bands of flame flew from Morion's fingers and seized Aica, throwing her against a wall.  
"What is this about?" the Witch-King hissed, his eyes flashing.  
"Why aren't you helping?" Khamul gasped at Vorea as she finally wrenched the dagger out of her and threw it across the room.  
"He is in his right mind," Vorea said. "However, I can see why you were deceived."  
"I wasn't deceived," Khamul snarled. The wound was already healing, but it still hurt.  
"You thought I was possessed by Melkor?" Morion asked.  
"You aren't?"   
"No, of course not. You would be piles of ashes if I was."  
"Comforting thought. What's that dagger? It…hurt."  
"It's enchanted," Morion said, walking over and picking up the blade where it had fallen. He inspected it. "It's not chipped, that's good."  
"Could you put some clothes on?" Khamul asked.  
"Hm? Oh. Right. Sorry."  
"And maybe you could let me down as well?" Aica hissed as she struggled against the bands of fire.  
Morion nodded and dispelled the bonds with a wave of his hand.   
"Ringe!" Aica roared, storming over to her brother.   
He looked absolutely petrified. Aica scared him more than Morion had when they were… No. Khamul remembered the look on Ringe's face. He hadn't been scared or in pain. He'd been enjoying it.  
"Sister," Ringe said weakly.  
"What were you doing?"  
"Um…"  
"Why did you barge in here like that?" Morion asked. "I thought you'd decided to try and kill me."  
"Well…we heard some things," Khamul said. She didn't want to say anything about the stone to Morion. He'd only relay it intentionally or not to Morgoth, and Sauron as well. The stone was going to be her and Aica's little secret. And Vorea's as well. Maybe.  
"It seemed reminiscent of the Numenorean incident," Vorea said. "We did not wish any harm to come to you or Ringe, so we decided to take action."  
Morion snorted. "And the action included trying to take my head off?"  
"It was successful last time."  
"Bastard!" Aica snarled, kicking Ringe in the ribs. The eighth ringbearer curled up on the floor and tried to avoid the blows.  
"Stop it," Morion snapped, grabbing Aica by the arm and hurling her away from Ringe.  
The look on Aica's face would have been funny if Khamul was in the mood for laughter. She was shocked, stunned, and furious. All at once. Never before had anyone gotten between her and Ringe.   
The shock wore off and then she was shaking with rage. Her hands clenched and Aica took a step toward Morion.  
"We all change," Vorea said. "Sometimes we are close to our family, and sometimes we wish to grow apart."  
"Ringe," Aica hissed, "is my brother. Not your whore."  
Morion glanced at Ringe, who had stood up. "You're welcome to go with Aica to Arthedain if you wish," he said. "Or you can stay here with me."  
"Arthedain?" Aica snapped.  
"Yes. We need to know how the Great Plague has effected them."  
Aica opened her mouth to say she knew damn well how the Great Plague had effected them, but then she shut it. Morion was her enemy now, and he was not going to learn of the stone.  
"Fine," she snapped. "Ringe, come on, let's go."  
Ringe looked from Aica to Morion. "No," he said quietly.  
"What?"  
"I'm not going with you. I…I love you sister, but…"  
"But what?" Aica snarled, her face going red with fury.  
Ringe's hand went to his ribs. "It hurts, even now, with the ring. You're not always a very nice person, and it hurts."  
Aica went white to the lips. "You're leaving me?" she hissed, her voice shaking.  
"Maybe someday…" Ringe began. "Someday we can be friends again. When you don't hurt me."  
Aica looked at Morion with such hate in her eyes it was like deadly poison. Then she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.  
"I should get back to training the orcs," Vorea said. "They are troublesome creatures, and this batch seems worse than the others."  
The door closed softly behind Vorea. Khamul wanted to leave, but she couldn't make her feet move.  
"You stabbed me," she said.  
"You were about to cut my head off," Morion reminded her.  
You still stabbed me. With an enchanted dagger no less. "Oh well, no harm done then," Khamul said with a forced smile that turned out more like a grimace.   
"I suppose you have things to do," Morion said.  
Yes, yes, I'm leaving. I'm leaving. "Yeah. I do."   
Khamul hurried out of the room, taking care not to slam the door behind her.   
"Valar damn it all," she muttered when she reached her room. She didn't care anything for Morion. He'd been a friend, but now he was cold. No. He had been cold. He seemed more normal now. But Ringe…  
Hate surged through Khamul like acid. How she hated Ringe! She wanted to hurt him, to kill him. How dare he capture Morion's heart! The bastard! But Khamul would find a way to hurt him. To kill him.  
Why do I care? Khamul thought. Morion was a friend, nothing more. Nothing more…


	29. The Barrow-Wights

"I don't like this," Ancalime whined as they rode across the land. "It's cold and wet. And this road is terrible!"  
Khamul rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. They had left Angmar a few days ago and were riding toward the ruins of Cardolan under the pretense of a noble woman traveling with a mercenary escort. Khamul knew the real reason for the disguise. Morion wanted to get Khamul and his sister out of Angmar for a while, just like he had Aica.   
"Is that a dead body?" Ancalime gasped in horror, pointing toward a field where a bloated corpse lay.  
"Yup," Khamul said. "Famine, probably. Or the plague."  
"Can we get the plague?"  
"No."  
"I wonder why Morion sent us here."  
"To deliver these." Khamul hefted one of the large wooden boxes attached to the horses. And to keep you from realizing he's got a thing going on with Ringe, she added silently. And to keep me from getting rebellious.  
"What's in them?"  
"No idea."  
"What do we do with them?"  
"Dump them in graves," Khamul said.  
Ancalime frowned. "That sounds disgusting," she said. "Why are we doing that?"  
"I don't know," Khamul hissed. "Morion wouldn't tell me."  
"Oh. He must have a good reason then. Morion's very smart."  
Oh yes, he's positively brilliant. He chose Ringe over…! No…I don't care. I've never cared. Why should I care? Why should I be jealous of some weak-willed albino bastard?  
"You seem preoccupied," Ancalime noted.  
"Just thinking about the boxes," Khamul said. "And the road. It looks like it might be washed-out ahead."  
"Oh dear. Are we going to get muddy?"  
"Maybe."  
Ancalime sighed in resignation. "One must make sacrifices, I suppose."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "Yes, I suppose one must," she muttered.  
As it turned out, the horses got muddy, but the riders stayed dry. As they passed into Cardolan, the land turned black, the trees died, and the bodies started to pile up.  
"It smells," Ancalime complained.  
"Dead things smell," Khamul snapped.  
"It isn't just the boxes, is it?"  
"Is what?"  
"What you're preoccupied about?"  
"Did you just learn that word today or something?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"Leave me alone!" Khamul snarled. "I don't want to talk to you!"  
"All right," Ancalime squeaked.   
They rode for the rest of the day in silence, and then through the night. It was nice and peaceful without Ancalime's incessant chatter, but when they started through a dead forest, Khamul began to get nervous. She wished Ancalime would start to jabber about mindless things to take her thoughts off this eerie place.  
I'm the biggest, scariest, toughest thing here, Khamul told herself. There's nothing here that could possibly hurt me.  
So why was she so nervous?  
"That looks like a big grave," Ancalime said quietly, pointing to a place beyond the trees.  
"Mass grave," Khamul said. "That should be all right. Hold my horse." She swung down to the ground, grabbed one of the boxes, and started off toward the trees.  
I am not afraid, she thought as she walked through the white, hollow trees. Everything was dead. The leaves and twigs crunched and snapped under her feet, no animals chirped or scurried through the forest.  
When she reached the grave, Khamul opened the box and turned it upside down over the loose soil.   
Nothing fell out.  
"It's empty?" Khamul snarled in fury. Morion had sent her on a fool's errand!  
She shook the box vigorously and then looked inside it.   
"It is empty!" she roared. Cursing, she hurled the box further into the forest.   
"Is something wrong?" Ancalime called from the road.  
"The boxes are empty!" Khamul yelled.  
"So?"  
"So there's nothing inside of them!"  
"Is that a problem?"  
"Yes!"  
"Oh."  
Khamul stormed back to the horses and seized another box. She shook it. "Empty!" she yelled.  
"I don't think you should open that," Ancalime said as Khamul started to open the box.  
"It's empty, it doesn't matter," Khamul snapped. "Yup, empty."  
As she looked into the box, something looked back.  
Khamul shouted and cursed and then leapt back as something tackled her. It didn't have a shape, but she could feel its spirit trying to make a grab for her body.   
"Get off, you wretched ghost!" she yelled.   
The ring flashed on her hand, and the spirit left.  
"What was that about?" Ancalime asked, her eyes wide. All she'd seen was Khamul yell and fly back, wrestling with air.  
"Ghosts!" Khamul exclaimed. "There're ghosts inside the boxes!"  
Ancalime laughed. "Don't be silly," she said. "There're no such things as ghosts."  
"Yes, there are, and Morion's got them trapped in boxes. He wants them to haunt the graves of Cardolan's dead. Smart plan. No one'll be able to recolonize the place now."  
"Is that a good thing?" Ancalime asked, frowning over unfamiliar words.  
"Yes," Khamul snapped. "Now let's go find some royal graves. I like the idea of a ghost walking around in some old Dunedain's bones."


	30. The Palantir

This is pointless, Aica thought as she rode across the land. Why am I going to Arthedain when I can see it from the rock?  
Because you don't want Morion to know you have it.  
Aica heaved a sigh and her hand went to the rock. She'd taken it with her as she didn't trust leaving it behind. Someone might find it, and even if they didn't, Khamul would certainly steal it.  
"Why am I doing this?" Aica muttered. "I don't want to go to Arthedain. I don't like sneaking around and spying. It's dangerous and a waste of time."  
So why am I?  
Aica jerked the horse's reins. There's no point in going, she thought. I can tell Morion everything he wants to know. But I can't return yet. I have to be gone for a while. And if I'm not going to go to Fornost, where am I going to go?  
This was a puzzler. Aica had seen most of Middle-Earth, and she'd liked virtually none of it. So where to go on these three months or so she had to herself?  
Aica took out the stone and looked into it. There was the new king, Argeleb II, with his advisors, discussing the plague no doubt. Nothing interesting there. Aica's gaze left Fornost and scanned the countryside. Lucky bastards. The plague'd hardly touched them at all.  
Now, Gondor…how was it doing? Not very well by the sight of all those bodies lining the road. Aica frowned. If only Angmar was closer to Gondor! It would be easy to conquer the country in its weakened state! But no, they were far in the north and there were too many enemies between them and Gondor.  
And there was Ceure, watching the city from a villa outside Osgiliath…no. It wasn't Osgiliath. It was somewhere in the city built on a mountain…Minas Anor.   
Why wasn't she in Osgiliath? It was the capital, after all. No…maybe not.   
Aica commanded the stone to look at Osgiliath and saw a city in ruins. It had only barely managed to recover from the Kin-Strife, and this new disaster had destroyed it. Cut to less than a quarter of its former population, Osgiliath was a wasteland. The king had probably relocated to Minas Anor. Interesting.  
"Huh," Aica said. Maybe she should send Ringe down there to investigate… Except Ringe wasn't hers anymore. The little traitor was Morion's slut.  
Aica burned with fury and it only increased as the stone, responding to her thoughts, showed her Carn Dum. There was Ringe talking with Morion. He looked happy and it made Aica's blood boil. How dare he laugh after betraying her! How dare he! She'd show him! And she would take Morion's head from his shoulders for stealing her brother.  
Suddenly the scene in the stone clouded, the crisp image replaced by gray mist.  
"What is this?" Aica snapped, scowling. Was the stone broken? Did it react badly to strong emotions?  
~I was wondering when someone would find this one,~ someone said in Aica's mind.  
"Who said that?" Aica exclaimed, whipping her head around. But she was all alone in the middle of the moors.  
The voice sighed. ~I'm in the palantir, genius.~  
"The what?"  
~The rock.~  
"It's a what now?"  
~Palantir. There're seven of them in Arda. You've got the master stone. Lucky you. Doubt you deserve it.~  
"The master stone?" Aica asked, looking harder at the crystal. It didn't seem incredibly special. But then again, she hadn't seen the others. "And there're six more like this?"  
~Yes. I don't know where they are, but Elros brought seven to Numenor, and they all made it to Middle-Earth.~  
These were old then. Very, very old indeed. "So what are you? A ghost or something?"  
~I wish. No, I'm a prisoner in this place…it's full of gray mist. I think someone called it the Land of the Lost.~  
"Sorry about that, but I can't help you."  
~Look, you wretched little wraith. I made the palantri, and you've been using that one for your own ends! I think you owe me something!~  
"Who are you?" Aica snapped.  
~I am Feanor, son of Finwe. You've probably heard the name before.~  
Aica, not having had a formal education of any sort, hadn't. "No," she said. "What are you? An elf?"  
~I was the High King of the Noldor!~  
"What? Like Gil-Galad?"  
~Before Gil-Galad!~  
"I don't like elves," Aica said. This one sounded different from all the other wordy, imperious ones she'd heard of though. He reminded her of some of the toughs who used to hang out in Bree.   
~I don't like humans! And I like undead humans even less! But I need your help. Unfortunately.~  
Aica's eyes narrowed. "What kind of help?"  
~I presume that you at least know who Morgoth is?~  
"Yes, of course. I'm not an idiot."  
~I was beginning to worry. Anyway, he is keeping me captive in this land.~  
"Again, that's a shame, but I can't go up against the Dark Vala." Although I'd like to, because striking a blow against him would put a dent in Morion's day.  
~I'm not asking you to. I just need your help in escaping him.~  
"That sounds dangerous."  
~You're a wraith! You can't die!~  
"You're dead, aren't you?" Aica asked. "And if he's got a hold on you while you're dead, think of what he can do to me!"  
~Have some guts for once in your miserable life. Look, what do you want?~  
"Want?"  
~What do I have to promise you for you to help free me?~  
What do I want? Aica thought. "I want Morion dead," she said.  
~Who is Morion? Wait… Is he your leader? The one possessed by Morgoth?~  
"That's him."  
~I think I might be able to help you out there,~ Feanor said slyly. ~Free me, and I can give you his head.~  
"Well, I've got some free time so I might as well do a good deed. Or something. What do I do?"  
~The main issue is getting my soul from this place to Arda. I'll need a vessel for it…~  
"Would the stone…er…palantir, work?"  
~No. I could get in, but I doubt I could get out.~  
"But you made it."  
~It's a new type of magic! Ordinary magical objects I can twist and bend to suit my needs, but this…I've never tried with this before.~  
"So what do you need?"  
~Something magical…something powerful.~  
"Like my ring?" Aica asked, holding up one of the nine rings.  
~Are you mad? Sauron made that! You're suggesting I put my soul into one of Sauron's creations?~  
"You seem awful choosy for someone in a mess."  
Feanor sighed. ~I need to be able to get out, and I don't want to be captured by Sauron. Those are my only criteria.~  
"Well, I'll look. But I'm not promising anything."  
~Does Galadriel still live in Arda?~  
"Huh? Yeah, in Lorien. Why?"  
~She has many ancient objects in her possession. One of them should do nicely.~  
"Getting into Lorien is a lot harder than it looks. And it looks pretty hard."  
~As you said, you have time on your hands. And you're immortal.~  
Aica sighed. What's life without a little challenge? she thought.


	31. Saruman the White

"Well, that's the last of them," Khamul said, vigorously shaking the ghost box over the grave.  
"Do you suppose the souls of the dead mind?" Ancalime asked as she watched.  
"Huh?"  
"Do you think they mind having ghosts living in their graves?"  
"I think they're in Mandos right now."  
"It still doesn't seem very polite."  
"I don't care," Khamul snapped. "We're going home now." With Aica on her way to Arthedain, I think I'll take custody of that stone, she thought. If she didn't take it with her.  
"Oh, I'll be glad to be back," Ancalime said. "It's very cold and nasty out here." She cast a disapproving look around the moors surrounding the grave.  
"So will I," Khamul said, swinging onto her horse. "Let's go before it gets dark." Dammit! Did I say that? Ah well, Ancalime won't notice.  
"Do you think the ghosts will come out after dark?" Ancalime asked nervously, looking around.  
"Maybe, I don't know. They can't hurt us though." So why am I so nervous?  
"Oh! Should we warn him?"  
"Warn who?" Khamul asked, glancing around frantically.   
"That man over there. On the road. The one dressed in white."  
A twinge of panic struck Khamul as she looked up and at the man she'd seen all those years ago in the Gladden Fields. He'd been looking for the Ring, but had only found the Elendilmir. And he was a Maia.  
"We've got to get out of here," Khamul muttered, kicking the horse.  
"Ah, friend!" the Maia called, waving a hand.  
"Oh, he sounds friendly," Ancalime said.   
"No! Oh, you idiot!" Khamul cursed as Ancalime nudged her horse toward where the Maia…Saruman, stood.  
"It is not safe for women to be out after dark," the Maia said, his eyes glittering as Ancalime and – reluctantly – Khamul rode up.  
"It's not safe for old men either," Khamul snapped. We're both not what we seem, she thought. And we both know that. Let's just get that straight.  
"Oh, I'm not as old as I look," Saruman said with a smile.  
"Yeah, you're older. Come on, Ancalime, let's go."  
"Might you be ringbearers?"  
"No. We're leaving. Let's go."  
"Ringbearers?" Ancalime asked. She held up her hand. "Well, I've got a ring."  
"I see," Saruman said. His dark eyes glittered even more.  
"She's married," Khamul said.  
"No, I'm not," Ancalime protested. "I got this ring from…oh, never mind."  
"Sauron?" Saruman prompted."  
"Yes, him," Ancalime said cheerfully. "He was very nice. I liked him."  
Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, Khamul prayed. Thank the Valar she's talking about Sauron in the past tense though.   
"Such a tragedy about the Ring," Saruman said.  
"Oh, but I've got it right here."  
"He means the One Ring," Khamul snapped.  
"Oh, that," Ancalime said. "I don't know what happened to that. I think Isildur took it. He was a gentleman."  
"I'm sure," Saruman said. "Perhaps it fell off when he was killed in the Gladden Fields. Could someone have picked it up?"  
"I suppose," Ancalime said. "Where was it you said he died? I thought he died in Arthedain or something."  
Saruman looked thrown by Ancalime's stupidity and Khamul clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a giggle.  
"My…friend, isn't all there," Khamul said, tapping her head.  
"I see," Saruman said. He looked disappointed. Perhaps he was doubting that they were actually servants of Sauron. Let him think that.   
"I'm all here," Ancalime said defensively.   
"Yes, yes, of course you are," Khamul said. Yes, she's a crazy woman. That's it. I'm her Haradrim caretaker. Exactly.  
"I'm sorry to trouble you on such strange and trivial matters," Saruman said with a charming smile. "I mistook you for others, I fear."  
"Oh, that's all right," Ancalime said. "What a nice man," she commented as they rode off.  
What I don't like – don't like most – about Saruman is this apparent obsession he's got with the One Ring, Khamul thought. He's already been out looking for it once, and in the right place I might add. Why does he care about it? He's a Maia, he's got tons of power. He doesn't need the One Ring. But if he had it…  
If it came to a showdown between Saruman and Sauron, who would I back? Whoever had the Ring, I suppose. They'd be the strongest. I don't like Saruman because he's a slimy bastard, but so is Sauron. You can't trust a word either one of them says. But Sauron's got a shred of something – I wouldn't call it honor – in him. He hasn't overtly stabbed me in the back. Saruman would, I think, without a second's hesitation.  
So Sauron? Well, I guess so. I just pray the damn Ring stays lost.


	32. Caradhras

"Come on!" Aica shouted, slapping the reins. The horse rushed across the land, but it wasn't fast enough for Aica. Had they been going as fast as the wind, it still wouldn't be fast enough. She had to get to Lorien and back in three months. It didn't seem possible. There were the Misty Mountains to cross, and the only feasible pass was Caradhras, which she'd heard was a nightmare. The only other option was through the Mines of Moria, but what dwarf was about to let a Nazgul in?  
"Caradhras it is then," Aica grumbled, scowling. I wonder what happens if I freeze solid? she thought.  
The land sped by under the horse's hooves and the gray peaks came ever closer. Which one is Caradhras? Aica thought. She'd been this way before, but she'd never paid attention to Vorea's geography lessons.  
Caradhras…Barazinbar the dwarves called it. And Men called it…Redhorn. So it was probably red and shaped like a horn.  
Feeling cheered and quite intelligent, Aica studied the peaks, looking for one tinted red and horn-shaped.  
*  
Feanor was behaving strangely, Melkor noticed, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He was watching with consternation as Gondor's vigilant guard on Mordor became less vigilant, as Arthedain relaxed its border security, confident in the knowledge that Angmar had been hit too hard by the plague to do any serious damage.  
The cunning bastard!  
Melkor had thought Sauron had ruined his plans with the plague. Destroying half your army! Wiping out your fields! It was madness! But it was a madness that was working.  
Mordor was now empty, save for a growing number of orcs who were preparing the way for the return of their master. And in the north Arthedain let Angmar rebuild its strength uncontested. It was like they were begging for an invasion!  
Argeleb probably could've finished them all off if he'd tried, Melkor thought, grinding his teeth. But no, he stays safe and sound while his enemies begin to mass outside. He should've put solders in Cardolan to keep Morion from planting ghosts. Dammit! There isn't even a point to watching this madness anymore. He's lost! Arthedain's doomed!  
Under no circumstances did Melkor want Sauron to win. He did not want his pupil to regain the Ring, and he did not want him to rule Arda. When Melkor returned, he wanted to find a weakened, defeated apprentice, a host of orcs waiting to do his bidding, and a weakened Arda. He did not want to find that all paid homage to the Lord of the Rings.  
"I can't believe this plan is working," Melkor muttered, shaking his head. He hadn't given his pupil enough credit.   
"What plan?" Feanor asked.  
"Sauron's plans," Melkor snapped. Feanor started to ask another question, but Melkor shut him up with a glare. "Don't say another word," he threatened, "or I'll feed you to Ungoliant."  
Feanor nodded and looked scared, but Melkor could swear there was a glimmer of defiance in his eyes. Defiance, hope, and pure hate.   
Feanor was planning something.  
*  
"Nice place," Aica muttered as she rode her horse up the spiraling path to Caradhras. From this height she could see the valley of Azanulbizar. The vast lake, Mirrormere, glimmered but Aica didn't see any stars reflected in it. Probably just a myth, she thought.  
Along with the myth that the mountain's alive.  
Stories had trickled north, mainly from a race of midgets who'd migrated from the Gladden Fields to Eriador, about the treachery of Caradhras. It wasn't just that the pass was dangerous, which it certainly was, but that the mountain conspired against travelers. Some reported hearing a voice on the keening wind. Others said that boulders like fists rained down upon them. One thing was for certain, the mountain didn't like having people climb it.  
I don't suppose I'd care for it much if I was mountain, Aica thought as she continued carefully up the dull red slopes. The snowline was far ahead, but she had to pass over the mountain, which meant snow.  
It was nearing evening when a small rock struck Aica in the arm. It was just an annoyance, but when she glanced at the mountain in irritation, she heard a voice.  
"Leave."  
That was all. Very clear and to the point.  
"There are tons of people who've climbed this mountain," Aica snapped. "I'm going to be one of them."  
"Not you."  
The voice was eerie. Aica couldn't be sure she wasn't imagining it. Frowning, she took out the palantir. "Feanor?" she muttered. "Can mountains talk?"  
There wasn't a reply for a while, but then she heard the elf sigh.  
~No.~  
"This mountain is telling me to leave."  
~What mountain is it?~  
"Caradhras."  
~What are you doing on that? It's cursed!~  
"It is?" Aica asked, looking around nervously.   
~Just get off it before it decides to push you off.~  
"I can't get to Lorien then."  
~What about the Mines? Do the Dwarves still live there?~  
"Yes, I think so. They won't let anybody in though."  
Feanor sighed again. ~You'll die if you continue on Caradhras. If you can die, that is. Whatever happens, it won't be pleasant. Better to chance the Dwarves.~  
"Damn you, you stupid mountain!" Aica yelled as she turned the horse around.  
~Oh, brilliant job. Really amazing. You've made it angry."  
Aica could feel the mountain's hate all the way down. It was like a knife poking her in the back. Twice her horse nearly slipped in the dark, but each time it managed to recover. Finally, as dawn rose, Aica approached the end of the pass.  
"I hope you're satisfied," she snapped, turning around for a final glare at the mountain.  
"One only of your kind will I let climb me," Caradhras said.   
I'm imagining it, Aica thought. I am. I know I am. Mountains can't talk.   
"And one only of His line will I let through. And once only."  
"Who? Feanor?" Aica asked. She didn't know if Feanor had any descendents, but she supposed he probably did.   
The mountain didn't answer her question and went back to being a perfectly normal mountain.  
Cursing heartily, Aica led her horse down into the valley. Maybe they'll help a human in need, she thought. If they can't tell I'm a Nazgul. Oh, that would be bad.  
Treading carefully around the lake, Aica approached the wall of Moria. Now, she thought. How do I get in?


	33. The Grey Pilgrim

"Where's Aica?" Morion asked after Khamul had reported the success of the ghost box mission.  
"I don't know," Khamul said. "Probably in Arthedain. Why?"  
"One of my spies survived the plague and has returned. He would've seen Aica, I think. She's rather distinct, particularly her personality. He didn't recall seeing her."  
"Maybe she's learned the art of subterfuge."  
"I sincerely doubt it."  
So did Khamul, but she didn't know where else Aica would be. "She's only been gone a month or so. Why worry?"  
"Because she might do something reckless," Morion said. "As you may recall, she was rather agitated when she left."  
Khamul snorted. "That's putting it mildly."  
"Just keep a lookout, will you? I don't want a ringbearer running wild across the land."  
"Will do. Got any plans against Arthedain yet?"  
"No," Morion said. "We're still not strong enough." He smiled. "But we're getting there, and they've relaxed their guard."  
Aica took the stone with her when she left, Khamul thought as she left Morion's office. She didn't want me to steal it, I suppose. Of course, she'd have need of it if she was going to make a run for it. But why would she do that?  
"Hello, Khamul," Ringe said with a smile as they passed in the hallway. He'd become a different person since Aica left. Smiling, cheerful, Khamul couldn't stand it.  
"Hey, wait a second," she said.  
"Sure. What is it?"  
Grabbing Ringe by the shirt, Khamul slammed him into the wall. "Changed, haven't you?" she hissed.  
"What are you doing?" Ringe demanded.  
"You are a cowardly, pathetic, weakling. You're the eighth ringbearer, but I wouldn't use you as arrow fodder! So what makes Morion think you're so great, huh? Does he like men as malleable as cheese?"  
"I don't know," Ringe said. "Really! I just…we…it…something happened. It's hard to describe."  
"Try!"  
"He's like Aica only he doesn't hurt me. And he needs someone to…love, I guess, who doesn't hurt him like Morgoth does."  
"Someone he can have power over," Khamul said. "And that's you? You like that? You disgusting little bastard!"  
"Why are you so mad?" Ringe asked, squirming in Khamul's grip. "It's not like you love him." His eyes widened in astonishment. "You do!"  
"I don't! I don't!" Khamul yelled, shaking Ringe. "It's just disgusting! Disgusting how such a great general could fall for a pathetic worm like you!"  
"I'm not impacting his work!"  
"You better hope not! Or else I will personally tear your head off with my bare hands!"  
"I'm sorry," Ringe said quietly as Khamul let him go.  
"You have nothing to be sorry about!" Khamul snapped. "Because there is nothing to be sorry for! I don't love Morion, and I never have! He's a good general, all right? That's it! That's all!"  
Ringe nodded slowly, but he certainly didn't believe it.   
No! This wasn't possible! He couldn't know! Khamul wasn't even sure herself how she felt about Morion, but having Ringe believe she was in love with him was terrible! An absolute disaster! He'd probably look at her with pity now.   
Khamul clenched her fists and ground her teeth. Well, what was said was said. Hopefully Ringe would have the wisdom not to say anything to Morion.  
Glancing out the window at the scene of devastated fields, Khamul did a double take as she realized who was standing there, handing out bread to orphans and the ill.  
"This is not the right time!" Khamul snarled, hurrying out of the castle and through Carn Dum. The streets were deserted, a testament to how badly the illness had swept through Angmar, but by the time Khamul reached the road only the man was left, those he'd helped having gone their own ways.  
"I suspected someone saw me," Gandalf said. "So I thought it best to hurry the unfortunates along. I wouldn't want you taking out your anger on them."  
"What are you doing here?" Khamul yelled. "Giving food to people! People of Angmar! They're your enemies, you idiot!"  
"They are sick and ill women and children."  
"What if there was a soldier? If he was sick, would you give him food?"  
"Yes."  
"What kind of answer is that! He'll only kill you or those on your side!"  
"Side?" Gandalf asked, raising an eyebrow.   
"Yes, your side! Arthedain, Gondor, your side!"  
"I was not aware that it was sides."  
"It is! You, Elrond, Galadriel, you're the people in charge on your side! Me, Morion, we're on the other side! Your enemies! You don't just go around giving out bread to your enemies!"  
"I do not believe I've offered you any bread."  
"But you gave it to Angmar's citizens!"  
"Perhaps they will defect."  
Khamul groaned. "Just don't give out bread, okay?"  
"Why not? As you pointed out, it only helps your side."  
"Just don't. It doesn't feel…right."  
"Very well," Gandalf said.   
"You're just going to wait until I'm gone, aren't you?"  
"Perhaps."  
"Why are you here anyway?" Khamul asked. "I know what you are now, by the way."  
"What am I?"  
"An Istari. A wizard. There're five of you. Two went into the east, even though there's nothing there. Saruman's in charge, then there's you, and finally Radagast."  
"You're remarkably well-informed," Gandalf said. "And as for why I am here," He shrugged, "I wanted to see how the Great Plague has affected the north. It has stricken Gondor and all surrounding lands."  
"I heard," Khamul said. "And it's pretty much wiped Angmar out. You can see that for yourself. So go on, leave."  
"It seems to be rebuilding itself quite well," Gandalf said.  
"No, it isn't. Go away."  
Gandalf smiled. "Yes, very well," he said. "It looks utterly devastated beyond the point of resurrection."  
Khamul scowled at him. "Just leave," she said. Her hand went to her sword. "Or maybe I should cut your head off?"  
"I would advise against that. But perhaps in exchange for keeping my head, I could offer you some news?"  
"What about?"  
"One of your number."  
"Which one?" Khamul asked, although she had a very good idea who it was.  
"I only felt their aura, and they sped by me so fast I could not get a good look. Besides, I am not familiar with the names of all the ringbearers. Only yourself, the Witch-King, and the one-eyed warrior I know."  
Khamul smiled. Vorea had made a mark in the war against Arnor, terrorizing the soldiers. "Did they have yellow hair?" she asked.  
"I believe I saw something to the effect, yes."  
Khamul groaned. "Brown horse?"  
"Yes."  
"Aica!"  
"I see I was not mistaken," Gandalf said.  
"Where'd you see her?"  
"In the south, not in Arnor, which was why I was alarmed."  
"Don't be," Khamul said. "We're not going south. We're staying here for a long time."  
"I see. So the ringbearer was acting on her own?"  
"Oh yes," Khamul said.  
Gandalf nodded, as if commiserating with a friend. "Has there been a falling out?" he asked.  
"You wish. We just aren't seeing quite eye-to-eye right now. How south was this?"  
"Bree or so. She was heading toward the Misty Mountains."  
"Why?" Khamul asked. "What could possibly interest Aica there?"  
"The Mines of Moria, perhaps?"  
"No, she hates Dwarves. She hates everything."  
"Lorien is on the other side of the Mountains."  
"She hates elves more, and besides, they're bigger, meaner, and there're more of them than there are of her. She wouldn't go there."  
Gandalf seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.  
"You thought we were planning an invasion of Lorien?" Khamul asked, chuckling. "No. Not for a while at least."  
"I confess I'm relieved to hear it."  
"Don't get comfortable though," Khamul said. "By the way, have you ever seen the Elendilmir?"  
Gandalf frowned in confusion. "Elendil's crown? No, I have not. It went missing with Isildur's body."  
"Oh, I see," Khamul said. So Saruman hadn't revealed his discovery to his comrades. Very interesting.  
"Has it turned up?" Gandalf asked.  
"Maybe," Khamul said. "Don't look at me though. Perhaps you should look…closer to home."  
Leaving Gandalf to puzzle over this and finally feeling like she'd won a round with him, Khamul walked back to the castle.  
"Aica's out of Arnor," she announced, walking into Morion's office.  
"What?" he gasped.  
"Yes. A reliable source saw her riding toward the Misty Mountains from Bree."  
"What would she be doing there?" Morion asked, frowning.  
"I haven't faintest idea, but I don't think it's spying on Arthedain."  
Morion sighed. "Go get her, will you?" he asked. "And try to mitigate any damage she's caused."  
Knowing Aica, that's going to be difficult, Khamul thought. "I'll do my best," she said. At least Ringe hasn't told him anything, she thought. At least, not yet.


	34. The Mines of Moria

"Aha!" Aica exclaimed as she found the gates. It had taken her two days, but she had finally located the entrance to Moria.  
The beautiful tracery had been painstakingly carved into the mountain itself, but Aica wasn't interested in the aesthetics of the place.   
"Now, how do I get in?" she muttered. Might as well try the direct approach, she thought, and struck the gates with her fist.   
Nursing a bruised hand, Aica glared at the door. "Open! Come on! I want to talk to a dwarf!"  
"Any particular reason for that, human?" a low voice behind her asked.  
Spinning around, Aica looked down to see a small party of dwarves surrounding her. How did they get there? She hadn't seen any, but then again, she'd been mainly looking for the door.  
Hiding her surprise, she said: "I need to get to the other side of the mountains."  
"Use the pass like the rest of your kind."  
"It won't let me across."  
"What won't let you across?" the dwarf asked, raising a hairy eyebrow. They were all hair, these dwarves. Hair and chainmail, not to mention very large and sharp axes.  
"The mountain," Aica snapped. "Caradhras!"  
The dwarves exchanged glances. "The mountain won't let you across?" the first dwarf asked.  
"Yes!"  
"This is the mountain we're talking about? The inanimate mountain, yes?"  
"Barazinbar is cursed," another dwarf said. "It killed that mining party three years ago, remember?"  
"Bad luck and too much drink," the first dwarf snapped. "Besides, it didn't talk to them."  
"It might've."  
"I doubt it. Go away, human," the dwarf said. "We don't let your kind through the Mines."  
"I can pay for it," Aica said, reaching into her pocket. None of the ringbearers had much use for money, but she'd always kept some gold around. Aica liked shiny things, and she'd acquired quite a collection over the years.  
The dwarf considered this. "How much do you have?" he asked.  
Aica dumped her pockets' contents into the dwarf's hand.  
"Oh, that's a nice ruby!" one exclaimed, looking at the horde.  
"That gold piece looks solid. None of that plating or anything," another commented.  
"I suppose it might be enough for me to speak to the king," the lead dwarf said.   
"So I can go in?" Aica asked.  
"Yes," the dwarf said. "Stand back, human, and cover your ears. You mustn't hear how to open the gate."  
Aica stood back and pretended not to listen. Unfortunately, the dwarf spoke so quietly she couldn't catch what he'd said. But whatever it was did the trick. The doors swung open by invisible hinges.   
"Impressive," Aica said.   
"The Westgate is impressive," the dwarf agreed, "but Dwarrowdelf is truly the heart of Durin's folk."  
"Are we going to show her that?" another dwarf asked.  
"Probably not. We'll just take her to the king. And then straight through to the other side."  
"But the king lives in Dwarrowdelf."  
"Then we'll take her to Dwarrowdelf!"  
Impressive didn't do Moria justice. The whole place was lit up by thousands of torches that illuminated vast pillars and wide halls. And everywhere dwarves were hard at work, hewing at the stone, adding finishing touches to more pillars and stairs, or simply sitting around and drinking. But whatever they were doing, they all looked up when Aica walked by.  
"A human," they muttered. "What's she doing here?"  
"Have we opened up trade with the humans now?"  
"What's next? Elves?"  
Aica smirked at this. If only they knew that she carried a palantir, with Feanor inside it.  
"I don't see why you had to bring the horse as well," the lead dwarf grumbled as the horse stumbled over some treacherous ground.  
"He's important to me," Aica said. And valuable, too. It's not often you find a horse that doesn't need rest, water, or food.  
"Well, if he dies, it's not my fault."  
He won't die. He can't die.  
They journeyed for almost two days before reaching Dwarrowdelf. When they arrived at the great hall, Aica was actually stunned. Before she had been merely impressed, but this…this was incredible.  
"It's amazing," Aica muttered.  
"Isn't it though," the lead dwarf said, stroking his beard. "It's a relic from the First Age, you know. Durin the Deathless built it."  
As they walked through the mammoth hall, Aica was too awed to say anything. And then they reached the end of it where there was a slightly raised dais, upon which sat a dwarf who looked to be about middle-aged.  
"King Durin, this human wishes to pass through Khazad-Dum," the lead dwarf said, bowing to the king.  
"Durin?" Aica asked. "I thought you said he was a king of the First Age?"  
"This is Durin VI," the dwarf hissed. "Be courteous!"  
"Why do you not take the Redhorn Gate?" Durin asked.  
"The mountain won't let me," Aica said. "Believe me, I wouldn't be coming here if I didn't have to."  
"The mountain? Barazinbar? Why not?"  
Aica shrugged. "It told me to leave."  
"Ah, so the mountain is cursed. I suspected as much," Durin said. "Already we've lost so many dwarves on its slopes."  
"So…can I pass?" Aica asked. "I haven't seen anything secret or anything."  
"Yes, very well. It will start good relations with the humans, hopefully," Durin said. "We can always use allies."  
"Against whom?" the lead dwarf muttered as he led Aica out of Dwarrowdelf and into a tunnel. "We don't fight with the elves or the humans. And they don't care about our battles with the goblins."  
"How far is it to the other side?" Aica asked.  
"About a day's journey."  
Aica sighed. "This is a big place," she said.  
"And this is the shortest road. Hey, come on, come on, don't just stand there."   
Aica had paused near a tunnel mouth where, from deep within, she could hear the pounding of dwarven pickaxes. It was like a thousand others she'd passed, but there was…something. She could feel it.   
"Where are we?" she asked.  
"Come on," the dwarf said. "The king doesn't want you to see this."  
"Where are we?"  
"Beneath Barazinbar." He sighed. "Fine, fine, it's the mithril vein."  
"Mithril?" Aica's eyes lit up at the mention of the silvery metal. Strong as steel, light as a feather, and oh so valuable.  
"Yes, and this is the only place in all Arda it's found," the dwarf said with a smile of pride. "The only vein actually. We've been following it for quite some time now, and it's been getting thicker. We'll find the core soon."  
"No," Aica said abruptly.  
"What?"  
"I don't know," she muttered. Why won't they find the core? she thought. She'd responded reflexively. There was something about the tunnel that made her nervous. There was something down there, she was sure. The dwarves weren't alone in their tunnel.   
"Well, come on then," the dwarf snapped. "We've got a lot of ground to cover."


	35. Truce

Khamul rode like the wind through the land. She cut across fields and raced passed travelers. She didn't care who saw her, only that she found Aica before something happened. And something would happen, she was sure. Whatever reason Aica had for leaving Arnor, it couldn't possibly be good.  
She crossed the river Loudwater and continued south, steering a course toward the towering gray peaks. The pass of Caradhras seemed daunting from what she'd heard about it, but Khamul was prepared to chance it if Aica thought she could get across. There was, of course, the possibility of enlisting dwarven aid, but no. Khamul was not going to go crawling to the little midgets.  
She turned to the east the next day. The sun's rays glinted off red stone. Redhorn. Caradhras.   
"I'm coming for you, Aica," Khamul snarled. "And when I find you, it's not going to be pretty!"  
The next day Khamul happened to glance behind and noticed a large party of riders following her. Cursing, she urged her horse faster and hoped they turned away.  
They didn't.  
In fact, they started to catch up. What's the good of having an immortal horse, Khamul thought furiously, if it can't outrun the mortal ones?  
"Sir rider!" someone shouted as their horse caught up with Khamul's. "Why do you run from us?"  
"Because you're chasing me!" Khamul shouted back. "Go away!"  
"We wish to speak with you!"  
"Go away!"  
An arrow whizzed over her head and Khamul decided that these people probably hadn't wanted to talk in the first place.  
"Damn you, you bastards," she muttered, kicking her horse.   
"Nazgul!" a familiar voice shouted.  
"Elrond!" Khamul cursed. "What're you doing so far from Imladris?"  
"Slow down and I'll tell you!" the lord of Rivendell snapped. "You're killing our mounts!"  
"Good! That means you'll slow down!"  
"Or we'll just fill you so full of arrows even your immortal damned self won't be able to continue."  
Khamul sighed and yanked on the reins. I can always run later, she thought. "What is it?" she asked as the horses slowed to a walk.  
The elf party quickly surrounded her, and there wasn't an elf there whose hand wasn't on a weapon. They all eyed her warily, like she was a snake getting ready to strike.  
"What are you doing so far from Angmar?" Elrond asked. "Have the Nazgul decided to venture forth?"  
"I'm getting tired of telling people this," Khamul growled. "No, I'm chasing a stupid one who ran off."  
There were a few chuckles from the elves. "The fallen Dark Lord's servants desert his successor," they murmured.  
Let them think that, Khamul thought. It's actually, the Dark Lord's servants desert his lieutenant. But whatever you prefer.  
"Why is this Nazgul fleeing?" Elrond asked.  
"I don't know, because she's an idiot?" Khamul snapped. "I'll take care of her, don't worry. Now, what were you doing chasing me?"  
"You are a ringwraith."  
"So you chase me? If I was in a bad mood then that would've been a really terrible decision. And probably your last as well."  
"I sensed that a dark power was abroad in the land," Elrond said. "I myself have left Rivendell for a journey to Lorien."  
"Any particular reason?"  
"I don't have to answer you, Nazgul."  
"But I answered your questions," Khamul said. "You should reciprocate the favor."  
Elrond frowned. "A friend of mine's son has taken gravely ill. He has brought his son to Lorien to see if the Lady Galadriel can heal him. I wish to be there to offer support."  
"I thought elves didn't get sick," Khamul said. "Exceptions to every rule, huh?"  
"Yes. I fear for him though." Elrond was about to say more but cut himself off when he realized he was spilling his thoughts and feelings to a Nazgul.  
"Shame. Hope he feels better," Khamul said.   
"Nazgul, the only reason we have not hacked you to pieces is because there is a truce between Angmar and Arthedain."  
"Is there?" Khamul asked, surprised. "I didn't notice."  
"There is," Elrond said, irritated. "The Great Plague damaged both countries, and you are too weak to attack each other. Lorien, Imladris, and Lindon honor this truce for as long as it lasts. For too long this land has been at war."  
"It had peace for a very long time," Khamul pointed out. "A thousand years maybe."  
"Still, it has been at war for nearly another thousand."  
"Point taken. But when this truce ends?"  
Elrond's eyes turned hard as stone. "We will kill you," he promised.  
Khamul chuckled. "That's going to be fun to see," she said. "See you." She nudged her horse out of the encircling ring of elves and toward the mountains.  
Well, well, well, a truce, eh? That was interesting news. Khamul wondered if even Morion knew about it.


	36. Feanor Reborn

The dwarf let her out the Eastgate and told her never to come back. So it looked like Aica was finding a new way home. Oh well. She'd always wanted to see how the southern lands of Middle-Earth had changed.  
It was a short walk from the slopes of the mountains to where the forest started, and here was where Aica had to be careful. This forest was crawling with elves, and getting turned into an arrow pincushion was not in her plans.  
"You stay here," she ordered her horse, hopping off. It was safer to continue on foot. Maybe the elves wouldn't notice her, although the rumors said that Galadriel had a ring of her own. She would, at least.  
So Aica had to make this quick.  
"You better find what you need real damn fast," Aica muttered to the palantir. If it came to a fight, it was going to be hard to fend off fierce elven warriors with one hand clutching the crystal ball.  
As she hurried through the forest, Aica kept her eyes and ears sharp for any hint of sound or movement. She had the definite feeling that Galadriel knew she was here, but she didn't feel like she was being watched.  
"I don't even know where I'm going," she mumbled as she jumped over a stream and crashed through a pile of leaves.  
That night proved to be a lucky one. Hopelessly lost in the forest, Aica wouldn't have been able to find her way in the day, but in the night… Their city was lit up like the night sky.  
Grinning, Aica moved toward the enormous trees that held Lorien's city. Nice idea, she thought. Although I wouldn't enjoy living in a tree. I suppose it must be an elf thing.  
It was dawn when Aica reached the trees. She would've gotten there sooner but she was worried about running into a bunch of elves. However, recently, she had hit upon a brilliant idea.  
Using the palantir, she would scout out the immediate area. If it was empty, she ran through it. If not, she waited for the elven patrol to pass by.   
Now, she thought as she approached the huge trees, which one of these would most likely have something valuable in it? All of them, probably. But which one looks the best? Let's try the biggest.   
All the trees were full of elves, but Aica was crouched in a crack in one of the trees and safely out of the way. No one could see her; she'd checked. As she looked into the palantir, she smiled as she saw the large tree was mostly empty. Most of its inhabitants were up near the canopy, having a meeting or something.  
Good for me, Aica thought, scurrying out of her hiding place and scampering up a staircase in the trunk. Just move fast. That's the key.   
~You're close,~ Feanor hissed in her mind. ~Keep going. There'll be something here. I can feel Galadriel close by though. Watch out for her.~  
She's probably one of the people in the meeting, Aica thought. Got to be careful though. I do not want to run into her.  
There were buildings built on platforms supported by the tree limbs. Seeing an elf approaching in the palantir, Aica ducked into the first one, hoping it was empty. If it wasn't, well, no one would find the body for a while.  
It was a brightly lit room, but rather plain and empty. There was a bed along one wall, and a chest near it. A closet was on the other side of the room.  
Might as well start here, Aica thought. She hurried over to the chest and opened it, scanning the contents. Clothes. Damn. She was hoping for something better. Oh well, maybe the closet would have something useful.  
"Unghh… Father?"  
Dammit! Aica spun around, panic seizing her. She relaxed when she realized it wasn't some intruder, but only a pale elf in the bed.  
"You don't look well," Aica muttered, drawing her dagger and approaching the figure. "Let me put you out of your misery."  
~Don't even think about it,~ Feanor warned her.  
Why not? He's in my way.  
~I will not have any more elven blood on my hands.~  
Aica sighed and sheathed her dagger. "You're hallucinating," she told the elf. He was horribly thin and pale. His bones stood out like a skeleton's though he was obviously just a child. His gray eyes were cloudy and his black hair was lank.  
"Father?"  
"No, I'm not your father. You're dreaming. Go back to sleep."  
The elf quieted down and Aica walked over to the closet. It was empty.  
"Dammit!" she muttered. Now she had to find another building.   
As she was leaving, the sick elf started coughing.   
"Stop it!" Aica hissed. "Be quiet!"  
The elf coughed louder and Aica could see blood on his lips. As she watched in horror he convulsed and shook, blood gushing from his mouth.  
"Stop making so much noise!" Aica hissed. He was dying. It was somehow more horrifying than actually killing a man in battle.  
A glance in the palantir told Aica that people were coming. They were close by and running wasn't an option. So she had to hide.  
Planning to hide under the bed, Aica ran over to the elf, but as she slid under the bed, the elf's death throes caused his hand to flail wildly and land on the palantir.  
His hand stuck to it.  
"Dammit!" Aica muttered, trying to pry the elf's fingers from the stone. But it was no use. They were stuck fast.   
The door opened and Aica ducked under the bed, hoping she was hidden. She also hoped the palantir would stay stuck to the elf's hand. Maybe they wouldn't notice.   
"Oh Elbereth," someone whispered. Aica winced. The word burned her ears.  
"My son!" an anguished man exclaimed. The elf's father. Aica felt a twinge of sympathy for him. "No, no! He was doing so well!"  
"It had to come sometime," the woman said quietly. "There simply was nothing I could do."  
"No! I should've taken him to the Havens! The Valar could've healed him! I should've sent him over the sea!"  
Aica noticed an irritable feeling in her finger and gasped in horror as she saw her ring was glowing. Clapping a hand over it, she wondered what could possibly be making this happen.  
Oh. Of course. The woman was Galadriel, bearer of a ring herself.  
Dammit.  
"Shall I leave you here?" Galadriel asked quietly.  
"Yes," the elf said. "Yes. I'll just stay here. With him."  
"I'm very sorry for your loss. I thought –"   
"What?"  
"I thought…my foresight is not often wrong."  
"What did you see?" the elf asked.  
"I saw a destiny for him."  
"Well, it was wrong, wasn't it?" the elf snapped. "He's dead."  
"I am sorry, my friend."  
"When Elrond comes tell him to go back to Imladris. I don't want to see him and there's nothing he can do."  
"I will, my friend."  
The door closed softly behind Galadriel and Aica breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was with a less dangerous foe now. Probably.  
The ring had stopped glowing as well. Things were starting to look up.  
The palantir fell.  
Suppressing a scream of horror, Aica lunged for the crystal ball and just managed to catch it. She wondered if the elf had heard the noise. No, he was probably too wrapped up in his private misery.  
"What is this?" he murmured and Aica stiffened in terror. He heard me, she thought.  
"It can't be!" the elf gasped, his voice joyous. "Galadriel!" he yelled. "He's got a pulse! My son is alive!"  
The door flew open and Aica's ring started glowing again.  
"What is it?" the Lady of the Golden Wood asked. "He's alive?"  
"Yes, yes! He's alive!"  
"He is," Galadriel murmured in astonishment. "It seems my foresight may come true after all."  
"He's alive!" The elf was practically weeping in joy and relief. "Son! Say something! Please!"  
"Father?" the elf's son mumbled. "Is that you?"  
"Yes, yes, it's me! Oh, thank the Valar! You're alive!"  
"Yes, I am." There was something in the son's voice that made Aica's spine shiver. There was the small matter of him actually dying – she was sure he'd died – and then waking up again. And the palantir had stuck to his hand. What did that mean?  
Aica looked into the palantir, hoping Feanor would answer her questions. He didn't. In fact, there was no gray mist or anything. It was empty.   
"I feel very tired, Father," the son said. "I need to sleep."  
"Indeed, my friend," Galadriel said. "Your son is weak though I feel no presence of illness in him," she said, her voice warm and happy. "He will make a full recovery."  
"Thank the Valar," the elf whispered. "Thank the Valar."  
The door shut behind the two of them, and Aica wondered if she was going to have to wait until the elf was asleep until she could escape.  
"You can come out now," the son said.  
"What?" Aica gasped, so surprised she couldn't help it.  
"Come out, Aica," the elf snapped. "I'm not going to wait forever. And I am tired. Magic like I just did was no easy feat."  
"Feanor?" Aica muttered, crawling out from under the bed. "Is that why the palantir stuck to the elf?"  
"Yes," the elf – Feanor – said. He already looked healthier. "The boy is dead, his soul is in Mandos now. But as he died, I was able to come in and take over this body. He's about twenty, I think," he said, smiling as he admired his new body. "A bit weak, but I can deal with that."  
"So you're the son of a friend of Galadriel's," Aica said. "Won't she know who you really are?"  
Feanor frowned. "Maybe. I wonder what this destiny is she's talking about. I don't want to die again. It was most unpleasant the first time."  
"Maybe it'll be something good," Aica said. "Say, this place has a window." She walked over to the window and looked out. "I think I can get out from here."  
"Go," Feanor said. "Someone will be back soon."  
"Do you even know who you are now?" Aica asked.   
"No. I'll pretend I have amnesia. That should work. I hope I'm important," Feanor muttered. He smiled. "I like this body though. I feel so young again!"  
"Good for you," Aica said. "You owe me though!"  
"Yes, yes, I'll remember it," Feanor said.   
Aica doubted he would. He's going to conveniently forget everything tomorrow, she thought as she crawled out the window and down the tree.   
Meanwhile, in the room, Feanor stretched, enjoying the feeling of a real body. As he relaxed, the door opened and an elf, his father, walked in. He's a Sindar, Feanor thought with a sneer. But then again, so am I, I suppose. Damn.  
"I'm afraid you'll just have to sleep while I'm in the room," he said. "I can't let you die on me again." He was still shaking from the horror of having his son apparently die. Little did he realize that his son really was dead.  
"Father," Feanor said, "I…I can't remember anything. My life…it's a blur."  
The elf's face fell. "You only remember me?"  
"Yes, Father. But everything else…"  
"At least you're alive," the elf murmured. "At least you're alive. Nothing else matters."  
"Father…who am I?"  
The elf closed his eyes. "I am Thranduil, king of Mirkwood," he said. "And you are my son, Legolas."


	37. Deferred Until Destiny

Don't look down, Khamul told herself as she rode along the road to Redhorn Gate. The valley of Azanulbizar was below her, and she didn't want to end up splattered across the sharp rocks.  
Caradhras loomed before her, its red sides gleaming in the sun. It looked like a sentinel, guarding the only pass over the Misty Mountains for miles and miles.  
There was a small shrine near the base of the mountain. Put up by the elves, no doubt, Khamul thought, glancing at it. To Varda, certainly. They were always singing songs and dedicating things to Varda.   
When she reached the Redhorn Gate, Khamul's horse turned aside from the path and refused to move on.  
"You stupid horse!" she snarled. "You will go up that pass if I have to lead you up it myself!"  
But try as she might, she could not make her horse go up the road. I wonder if Aica had this trouble, Khamul thought. Probably not. Her luck is far too good for such a rotten person.  
"Do not blame your horse."  
Chills ran down Khamul's spine as she looked for the speaker. There was no one, and she wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't imagined it.  
"Where are you?" Khamul whispered. Who are you? she thought.  
"This way is closed to you. Find another path."  
"I am going up that mountain horse or no horse!" Khamul snarled, jumping off her horse and starting up the path. She felt an instant, intense unease. She wanted to turn and run and never look back.  
"This way is closed to you. For now."  
For now? What did the voice mean? Was there even a voice in the first place? Was she going crazy?   
"I'm going up the pass," Khamul snapped. She was not about to let a disembodied voice tell her what to do.  
"The Grey Pilgrim told you of your destiny?"  
Not this again. "You can take my destiny," Khamul said, "and you can shove it up your disembodied ass. Shut up and leave me alone."   
"Return to this mountain when you are ready to meet it."  
"I'm ready now, dammit!" Khamul yelled.  
The mountain shook and trembled and boulders began to rain like hailstones. One dropped only feet in front of Khamul, smashing through the path.  
"Well, that puts a dent in things," Khamul muttered.  
She turned around then. What choice did she? It wasn't like she was obeying the voice because she liked to. There wasn't a choice. She simply couldn't continue.  
"I didn't give into it," she told her horse as they rode away. "Those boulders fell. That was why. There wasn't a path left!"  
Was it just her, or did the mountain look smug?  
She rode for days around the damn mountains until she came to the gap in them. Unless Aica had a remarkable talent talking to dwarves or had somehow managed to get up the mountain, this was the way she'd have taken as well.   
On the seventh day after leaving the mountain, Khamul saw a rider coming towards her. A yellowed-haired rider on a brown horse.  
"Aica!" Khamul roared.  
The horse jerked to a stop. "Khamul," Aica said. "Er…"  
"What have you been doing?" Khamul snapped.  
"I…er…"  
"What did you do?"  
"Nothing! I…er…was just out for a…vacation."  
Khamul snorted. "You spied on Arthedain through the stone, and then decided to use the time you should've been in Fornost to go adventuring?"  
"Yes," Aica said with a smile. The lying smile Khamul knew only too well.  
"What else did you do?" Khamul asked. "And how did you get across the Mountains?"  
"I went under them," Aica said. "The dwarves were very agreeable."  
Khamul had absolutely no idea how Aica could manage that. "Why did you go across the Misty Mountains?"  
"To get to the other side?"  
Aica was hiding something. She would usually be snapping at Khamul by now, telling her to mind her own business.  
"What were you doing?" Khamul growled.  
Aica sighed. "I went to Lorien. Don't worry," she said as Khamul began cursing, "no one caught me."  
"What did you do that for?"  
"No reason."  
"Tell me!"  
"All right, all right! There was this elf trapped in the stone. He thought he could escape if he was in a different kind of magic object. I took him to Lorien to get him out. It worked, and now he owes me a favor."  
"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of!"  
"But he owes me a favor," Aica said with a grin. "An elf in my debt. This is going to be good."  
Khamul also had an elf in her debt, though whether Glorfindel would honor it was dubious. Still, it was a good thing, she supposed. He would at least hesitate about killing her if the situation ever came about.  
"You're still an idiot," Khamul said. "Any more stupid ideas or can we go back to Angmar?"  
"I don't know, you've got some damn stupid ideas yourself," Aica said.  
Ah, things were getting back to normal now. That was good.


	38. To Mirkwood

Melkor laced his fingers together and watched his slave. "Where is Feanor?" he asked quietly.  
It was these quiet moods Morion dreaded the most. "Your elf?" he asked. "I don't know. Isn't he here?"  
"No."  
"Then I don't know where he would be," Morion snapped. "I have a war to organize, if you'll excuse me."  
"Arthedain has called a truce. I'm surprised you don't know."  
"What?"  
"Yes," Melkor said. "Didn't Argeleb tell you?"  
"What, no! The plague, I suppose," Morion muttered.  
"Yes. Both sides need to recuperate. Orcs breed faster than Men so you should be ready sooner."  
"A truce," Morion muttered.  
"So you have plenty of time on your hands now," Melkor said. "I sincerely doubt Feanor has gone back to Mandos, therefore I assume he is in Arda. Find him."  
"He's one more elf among thousands," Morion said. "Besides, I don't have access to Mirkwood, Lindon, or Lorien."  
"Oh, but you do," Melkor said. "Dol Guldor is in Mirkwood, or have you forgotten?"  
"I won't be able to get a league near the elves' part of the forest before getting filled full of arrows."  
"Let me put it this way," Melkor said, "you can risk getting shot full of arrows, or I can make you wish you'd never been born."  
"I already wish that."  
"Then you've clearly never experienced the kind of pain I can deal out. Find my elf."  
"Why does it matter?" Morion asked. "I can't believe even you would go this far for revenge."  
"Oh, it's not about revenge anymore," Melkor said. "Feanor was the High King of the Noldor. He forged the Silmarils, made the palantri. To have him walking Arda again is a most discomforting notion."  
The more Morion thought about it, the more he was inclined to agree. "I'll see what I can do," he said.  
"Kill him when you find him," Melkor said. "Perhaps I'll get lucky and Mandos will send him back here."  
*  
"You found her," Morion said as Khamul and Aica walked in.  
"Yes, yes, I'm back," Aica snapped, glaring daggers at Morion.  
"Where was she?"  
"Wandering around near the Misty Mountains," Khamul said. They had agreed to leave out everything about Lorien. Morion didn't need to know about that.   
"Why?"  
"I wanted some time to myself," Aica said.  
"And why weren't you in Arthedain?"  
"Already went there. Talked to a peddler who told me everything."  
"And?"  
"The plague didn't hit them all that bad, but they've decided to call a truce with Angmar."  
"So it's true," Morion muttered. "Well, it seems we have some time to gather allies. I've sent Yanta to recruit orcs, and Metima to find some Easterlings."  
Khamul raised an eyebrow. "Yanta and Metima? Really? You're going to trust those two with gathering allies?"  
"Yes," Morion said. "After all, I used to trust Aica with gathering information about Arthedain."  
"Used to?" Aica snapped.  
"Used to," Morion growled. "Your brother is perfectly capable of spying on Fornost, not to mention the fact that I doubt he'll wander off."  
"You bastard!" Aica snarled.  
"You know what?" Morion said with a smile. "Khamul, Aica, I think a trip to Dol Guldor is long overdue for the pair of you. Sauron will be so glad to see you. Take your time, and while you're in Mirkwood, look for an elf called Feanor. You may leave now."  
"He knows?" Aica whispered as they left the office.  
"No," Khamul said. "He's mad at us and wants us out of his sight. Melkor must've told him about the elf."  
"Should I take the palantir?" Aica asked. "Will Sauron be able to detect it?"  
"You can either take it," Khamul said, "or leave it here for an orc or Morion to find."  
Aica nodded. "I hate Mirkwood," she muttered.  
"I hate Sauron," Khamul said. "But let's get going. We don't want to keep the great lord waiting."  
*  
"Meat?" the goblin offered, holding out a strip of something that was probably mammalian, though it might've been a very large lizard.  
"Thanks," Yanta said, accepting it. She'd never been very picky about her food, which was why Morion had sent her to deal with the goblins.  
"So, Shrieker, your little land is in ruins," the chief said, taking a sip of wine. "You need the goblins' help to run the Men out of the north."  
"That sums it up pretty well," Yanta agreed. "Except that we've got nine Shriekers, as you put it, and Sauron."  
"Ah, the Dark Lord. He does count for something. But he doesn't have his Ring."  
Yanta frowned. She really hated this goblin. He was extremely irritatingly smart.  
"What we're offering you is all the gold and plunder you can carry out of Fornost," she said.  
"And if we don't take Fornost?"  
"Then you'll be dead so it won't matter."  
"What are our odds?" the chief asked.  
"With your help, good," Yanta said. "Angmar will recover faster than Arthedain and we'll soon be able to crush them."  
"How soon?"  
"Soon. I don't know, a hundred years."  
The goblin snorted. "You think like an elf. A hundred years is a long time."  
"It might be sooner if you offer a lot of troops."  
The chief considered this. "My people will fight for you, but we want to be fed and sheltered in Angmar."  
Yanta frowned. Angmar's fields were pretty much ruined and they were just barely going to scrap through winter.   
"Starting after next harvest," she said. "How about that? You bring yourself and all your little friends down from the mountains. All the food you can eat, and some nice places to live as well." Nice places to live: e.g., hovels.  
"Very well," the chief said. "Anything I can do in the service of Sauron." He grinned, showing broken yellow teeth. "I wouldn't want to disappoint the Dark Lord, would I?"  
*  
"I was led to believe I would be speaking with one of the Dark Lord's lieutenants," the Easterling chief said.  
"You are," Metima told him.  
The chief snorted. "You're a woman," he said.   
"So's your wife."   
The chief glared. "My wife does not represent me at a meeting, nor does she have any influence on my people."  
"I am one of Sauron's lieutenants," Metima said. "Although if you don't want to deal with me, perhaps you'd like to take it up with the Dark Lord himself?"  
The chief paled. Even without his Ring, diminished and banished, Sauron held a grip of fear on these people's hearts.  
"Angmar needs people," Metima said. "Warriors, farmers, people to take the places of those who died in the plague."  
"My people are quite happy where they are," the chief said. "I see no reason to cross the treacherous mountains and go into the gray, wet lands."  
"When Arthedain falls, those who side with Angmar will come away with great fortunes. They can return to their former lands richer than their wildest dreams."  
The chief thought about this. Wealth held a strong grip on his heart. "How long will this campaign be?" he asked. "I do not want to be away from my lands for long."  
"Oh, it won't be long at all," Metima said. "A few years, not more than a decade." You'll be in your grave for a long time before we attack, she thought. But you don't need to know that.  
"Only a decade," the chief muttered. "For all that wealth… It seems like a good plan," he said. "I want to be paid, of course. And all my people, too."  
"Of course," Metima said. "You'll be paid handsomely for your services."  
"Excellent," the chief said. "I shall send a message to my vassals. We should be ready to move out in a few days."  
*  
"Shut up," Khamul said. She had gotten to know when Aica was about to say something. There was this little, faint, intake of breath preceding the words. It was short, but it was long enough for Khamul to tell her to be quiet.  
"How much farther is it?" Aica snapped.  
"Not far," Khamul snarled. "You've been here before."  
"Not for a long time! I don't remember the way."  
"Fortunately, I do. We're south of the Gladden Fields right now. We'll be in Dol Guldor sometime late tomorrow, hopefully."  
"I don't think Feanor's in Mirkwood," Aica said. "He's probably still in Lorien, so it would be stupid to go wandering around the woods looking for him."  
"There are three – four, if you count Rivendell – homes of elves in Middle-Earth," Khamul said. "Feanor, or the kid whose body Feanor stole, didn't come from Lorien because they went there to get Galadriel's help. He also didn't come from Rivendell, as why would Elrond journey separately then? That leaves Lindon and Mirkwood. If it was Lindon, which is where the Grey Havens are, then the kid should've been put on a boat out of here. Therefore, he's probably from Mirkwood."  
"Mirkwood's going to be harder to sneak around in than Lorien," Aica complained. "With all the horrors Sauron's unleashed on them, they'll be on their guard."  
"I, for one, have no intention of looking for Feanor," Khamul said. "He's trapped in the body of an elf kid. We've got plenty of time to find and kill him before he becomes a threat." And besides, that'll spite Morion. Won't he be so irritated that Feanor's still alive!   
"We could say we looked," Aica said with a cunning smile, "but none of the elves were called Feanor. Morion doesn't realize he's in a different body!"  
Aica was getting smarter. Khamul blamed the palantir for that. "Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," she said.   
It actually took them two more days to reach Dol Guldor. The forest around the fortress had grown wild and tangled, not to mention dangerous. There were bogs and marshes along with several unfriendly wildlife, much of it not local.  
"I didn't know they had wargs in the forest," Khamul said, cleaning her sword after decapitating the enormous wolf.  
"They don't," Aica spat. "Sauron must've introduced them to terrorize the elves."  
"I think it's working," Khamul said. "It doesn't look like anyone's been around here for ages."  
"Ah, my friends," the silky voice of Sauron whispered. "So good to see you. I was beginning to think you'd never come."  
Khamul forced herself not to jump. Figures, she thought. The damn bastard's been spying on us. "We had some trouble getting across the Mountains," she said.   
"Are the goblins not cooperating?" Sauron asked as he stepped out of the forest. He was dressed, as usual, in black. His long hair was tied back at the nape of his neck and it hung to the middle of his back.  
"It wasn't the goblins, it was the path. It's in horrible condition. Our horses nearly broke their legs."  
"How unfortunate. Perhaps the goblins need to be reminded that upkeep of the pass used by Angmar is part of their duty to their lord."  
"After we've conquered Arthedain," Khamul said. "We need their help."  
Aica snorted. "Goblins," she muttered. "We don't need their help."  
Sauron raised an eyebrow. "You don't agree?"  
"Oh, we agree all right," Khamul said. "Don't we, Aica?" she hissed.  
Aica heaved a sigh. "Yeah, all right, fine. We need the damn goblins."  
Sauron smiled. "I'm so glad to see you aren't at each other's throats after all this time."  
Khamul forced a smile. "Yeah, isn't it great?"  
"Please, accompany me back to Dol Guldor. I had noticed that none of my warg scouts had returned and decided to venture forth and see what had occurred. Apparently it was the pair of you."  
"They attacked us," Khamul said.  
"I'm sure they did."  
"It's a little hard to discourage a warg from attacking you short of severing its head from its body!"  
"Yes, indeed."  
Sauron was never going to let her forget this. Never mind that the bloodthirsty beasts had lunged for her throat! Never mind that she didn't know they were Sauron's! No, all that mattered was that they were his wargs, and she'd killed them.  
Once they were in Dol Guldor and eating dinner in its large dining hall, Sauron brought up the subject of Angmar and Arthedain.  
"He's recruiting goblins from the Misty Mountains and Easterling from…the east," Khamul said. "We're going to strike before Arthedain's fully recovered."  
"An excellent strategy," Sauron said.   
"Did you mean for the plague to wipe out Angmar as well?"  
"Hm?"  
"Did you want us crippled?" Khamul asked.  
"I don't believe you're crippled," Sauron said. "In fact, I'd say the plague has put you in the optimal position. Your enemy is weakened, but believes you to be so severely weakened that he relaxes his defenses. That should make it easier to defeat him."  
"It's still going to be a long battle," Khamul said. "If it was just Arthedain, it'd be easy, but it's not. We're also fighting Lindon, Rivendell, and sometimes Lorien."  
"Give it time," Sauron said. "Patience is a virtue."  
One thing Khamul had never been known for was her patience.


	39. War Resumed

"Attack!"  
The goblins and Easterlings surged over the hill and rushed toward the small patrol, trampling over it, and continuing on to the village.  
Vorea pursed her lips in distaste as the goblins slaughtered the citizens and set fire to the buildings. She wanted an army to fight, but it would be many weeks before Arthedain could muster a force and send it against Angmar.  
They had broken the truce.  
Arveleg II was king in Arthedain, and he had expected his reign to be as uneventful as his father's and his father's before him. How unfortunate that he was to be disappointed.  
The goblins and Men finished with the village quickly and Vorea inspected the ruins. There wasn't anything left apart from a bone scrap here and there. The goblins were great scavengers, leaving nothing behind. They would eat for weeks on the flesh they'd found here.  
"Where to now, General?" the chief goblin hissed. He was an ugly brute with a square head and beady red eyes.  
"We continue west," Vorea said. The goal was to lay siege to Fornost, but Vorea doubted they would get that far before they were pushed back. Arthedain was startled, and they were getting far, but they wouldn't get that far.  
The goblin chief barked orders and the Easterling chief stormed over, looking furious.  
"There's nothing left!" he yelled. "The filthy goblins burned it all!"  
"There will be more villages," Vorea said. In fact, they had encountered nothing but villages for quite some time now. She estimated they were almost at the heart of Arthedain and they had encountered only minimal resistance. She wondered how Khamul was doing.  
*  
"Kill the bastards!" Khamul yelled as she slashed and hacked at the soldiers that swarmed around her like flies. Just her luck to stumble right into a regiment of Arthedain's army!  
They had the element of surprise, but the soldiers had the advantage of numbers, not to mention better weapons and armor. Still, the goblins had hit upon the successful strategy of mobbing soldiers and tearing him to pieces before moving onto the next one.  
How many more are there? Khamul thought. The goblins were getting slaughtered for the most part, but the Easterlings were holding their ground along with the few orcs she'd managed to scrounge up.  
A dreadful wail filled the air and out of the forest poured over a hundred wolves, howling and hungry for blood.  
Khamul cackled as they knocked one officer out of his saddle. Many more horses threw their riders in panic as the wolves surged around them.   
So Sauron manages to do something right after all, Khamul thought with a smile. Good of him to loan us these wolves, even if I did kill some of his damn wargs.  
After a brief stay in Mirkwood and a half-hearted 'search' for Feanor, Khamul and Aica had returned to Angmar where they'd set about training the Easterlings, orcs, and goblins that poured in. Arthedain utterly relaxed its vigilance around the same time Angmar was ready to strike. So here they were, ready to put an end to Arnor once and for all.  
"Rally to me!" someone shouted and Khamul's head jerked up, looking for the speaker. Yes, she knew that voice. It was a voice she'd heard nearly a dozen times, reincarnated yes, but it was still Isildur's voice.  
Isildur's heir. Arveleg II.  
I killed your namesake, Khamul thought with a grin as she urged her horse through the battle, it seems only fitting that I kill you too.  
The king was surrounded by a wall of soldiers, covered in armor and bristling weapons.   
I like a challenge, Khamul thought. She kicked her horse forward, toward the ring of warriors.   
They stumbled back, surprised that someone would dare to outright charge them. Khamul laughed and swung her sword, slicing one through the neck.   
A mob of goblins swarmed two other soldiers, dragging them away. The scene rapidly degenerated into utter chaos as the Easterlings and orcs joined in, tearing away at the ring.   
"It's just you and me," Khamul said as she killed the last soldier between her and Arveleg.  
The king didn't answer her, but watched her coldly, his eyes briefly flicking to her bloody sword.  
He moved quickly, bringing his sword up to cut off her head, but Khamul was quicker. She blocked his blow and then struck at his unprotected hand. There was a ghastly slicing noise followed by a strangled scream, and Arveleg's hand went flying away into the battle.  
He was too stunned and shocked to parry her next blow, which severed his head from his shoulders.  
"Another one down," Khamul said with satisfaction. It wasn't the last though. Arveleg had a son in Fornost, and there were still the kings of Gondor to worry about. They didn't irritate her quite as much though. They were descendents of Anarion, whom she never really minded much. Isildur on the other hand…  
"The battle is won, my lord," the Easterling chief said. He was a tall, burly, intelligent man whose sole goal in the campaign was to make a lot of money and return home rich. He'd said as much. Khamul liked that honesty.  
"So I see," Khamul said. "Do you know who that is?" she asked, pointing down at Arveleg's head.  
"A man of Arthedain, I presume."  
"Better. That was the king."  
"Ah." The Easterling seemed more worried than impressed.  
"Aren't you glad that the leader of our enemies is dead?" Khamul snapped.  
"True, the king is dead, but he has a son, yes?"  
"Yes, Araval or something like that."  
"This son will not be happy his father is dead."  
"Well, no, I hardly think so."  
"Therefore he will attack with the ferocity of the vengeful."  
Khamul scoffed. "We can handle that."


	40. Araval's Cunning Plan

"I truthfully did not think we would make it this far," Vorea said.   
"Neither did I," Khamul agreed.  
They stood on the crest of a hill some half a league from Fornost. They had laid waste to the countryside, killed countless numbers of peasants, slaughtered patrols, and even killed Arveleg II. And here they were, an hour's walk from the capital of Arthedain.  
"I hope the damn orcs don't burn it," Khamul said. "I'd like to walk the streets as the victorious conqueror."  
"I hope we will not have to lay siege to it," Vorea said, frowning. "That would be difficult and time-consuming. However, we would still win."  
"The key's going to be taking it before reinforcements arrive."  
"Indeed. Yet I do not see any elves on the horizon."  
Khamul grinned. "Me neither. Attack!" she screamed at the army, raising her sword.   
"Advance!" Vorea seconded, raising her metal spear.   
The combined armies thundered across the plains, first slowly, then breaking into a run as they got closer to Fornost.  
"I don't see any soldiers," Khamul muttered, frowning as she searched for some sign of defense.  
"A siege then," Vorea said grimly. "Ah well, I suspected as much."  
"The damn orcs are getting out of control!" Khamul snarled as the goblins and orcs raced ahead of the pack, eager to get to the city for fire and slaughter.  
"Then they will encounter any traps the enemy has set for us."  
"The only problem is there doesn't appear to be an enemy!"  
"They are here," Vorea said, scanning the land. "Somewhere."  
Somewhere turned out to be hidden around Fornost in extremely large numbers.  
"Pull back!" Khamul and Vorea screamed as the first volley of arrows sliced through the goblins and orcs, killing hundreds.  
It was too late. The orcs and goblins were so far ahead they were beyond earshot of their generals. And as the Dunedain and elves poured out of the bushes they realized their mistake.  
"It appears that young King Araval is friends with the elves," Vorea muttered.  
"That's Elrond, dammit!" Khamul yelled, spying the elf lord among the warriors. "I'll kill the bastard!" She started to kick her horse forward, but Vorea grabbed the reins.  
"No! It will do no good if you are killed or captured! The field is lost! We must retreat!"  
"We can win it!"  
"You are out of your mind," Vorea hissed. "We have devastated Arthedain! That is enough for now! Sound the retreat!" she roared at a terrified bugler.  
Most of the orcs and goblins had been killed, but a great deal of the Easterlings had survived. Unfortunately, they lost more as the elves and Dunedain pursued the fleeing forces of Angmar across the land.   
They broke off pursuit as the army crossed into Rhudaur, and the defeated forces continued unchallenged until they reached Angmar.  
"You lost," Morion said simply.  
"We did not think we would even approach Fornost," Vorea said. "We ravaged the country, killed a great deal of its work force, and dealt a severe blow to its army. Arthedain will never be able to recover from this."  
"And now we have to build up our forces again while keeping an eye out for raids from Arthedain," Morion said. "Ah well, at least we have some time before they decide to attack."  
"They won't be attacking for a long time," Khamul said. "We got them good. And I killed Arveleg."  
"Except he's been replaced by his son, who happens to have reestablished ties with Gondor."  
Khamul and Vorea winced. This was the news they'd been hoping not to hear.  
"He had elves on his side, too," Khamul said.  
"Yes, he traveled to Lindon when he was young," Morion said. "The elves aren't as big a threat as Gondor. The southern kingdom is rebuilding its strength after the plague, and they could be a serious threat if they brought an army up here. Arthedain, the elves, and Gondor," he muttered, shivering.  
"They won't," Khamul said. "They'll have a falling out eventually."  
"Yes, I suppose they will. However, I'd like you to orchestrate it."  
"Me?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes, you," Morion said. "Vorea, please rebuild the army and fend off any attacks by Arthedain. I trust we'll be ready to destroy them once and for all soon enough. If Khamul does her job right."  
"What am I supposed to do?" Khamul asked.  
"Think of something. It doesn't have to be very big. It just has to distract Gondor long enough that they forget about Arthedain. Or, even better, it makes them cut ties with Arthedain."  
"And how do I do that?" Khamul muttered.


	41. Trouble for Gondor

Ceure smiled as she watched the flowers drift over the street. How pleasant. What a happy day.   
Narmacil II and his queen smiled and waved to the crowd. They made a lovely couple.  
"What a glorious coronation," a woman to Ceure's right commented.  
"Such a beautiful couple," her friend agreed.  
"They will be a fine king and queen."  
"I hear they already have a son."  
"Ah, yes, Calimehtar. He's a strapping young lad."  
"He will be a great king someday."  
"Yes, indeed he will."  
After the king and queen had passed by, Ceure returned to her villa. She enjoyed Minas Anor more than Osgiliath. The mountain air was most refreshing and the view was spectacular.  
Unfortunately, the uninvited guest was both unexpected and not entirely welcome.  
"While it's good to see you again, Khamul," Ceure said, "I wonder what you want."  
"You've got a very nice place," Khamul said.  
"Yes, I know. Why are you here?"  
"Vorea's leading the campaign against Arthedain and it appears that Araval has reestablished ties with Gondor."  
"Yes, I heard," Ceure said. "Does that impact you?"  
"Well, it could make things unpleasant. So I'm down here to make some trouble for the good king."  
Poor Narmacil, Ceure thought. Not even a day into his reign and already doom is calling.  
"I'm afraid I can't help you there," she said. "Umbar has been destroyed, although I hear it's being rebuilt."  
"Destroyed? By who?"  
"One of the kings," Ceure said. "It was a long time ago. I can hardly keep them straight anymore."  
"Huh. So, how are the Easterlings?"  
"Mostly cowed, frightened of Gondor's power."  
Khamul frowned. "Does Gondor have any enemies?"  
"Besides disease? Not really. Everyone's still scared of another Great Plague," Ceure said.  
"Would anyone like to be Gondor's enemy?"  
"Many people. The Haradrim mount the occasional attack, but it's easily repulsed. The Easterlings chafe under taxes and tributes, but their mutterings are a far cry from rebellion."  
"Seems like a bit of a shake-up is needed," Khamul said. "I think I could do that. What's Mordor like?"  
"Deserted, as far as I know," Ceure said. "There're probably a few orcs hidden here and there and multiplying, but Gondor has relaxed its guard."  
"That didn't seem like a good place to mount rebellion anyway," Khamul said. "Oh well. Southern Gondor is heavily patrolled, I'm guessing?"  
"Quite right," Ceure said. "Rebellion is too common down there for there to be any relaxation of vigilance."  
"So the Easterlings might have reason to attack and the ability to formulate a rebellion without getting caught and slaughtered by Gondorians?"  
"They would be your best bet," Ceure said.  
"Then I'll go see about them," Khamul said. "You coming?"  
"No, I think I'll stay here."  
"Suit yourself."  
*  
"I would love to drive the soldiers of Gondor out of my land. I would love to burn their fields and steal their riches. I would love to watch their proud cities crumble. Except they would kill us."  
"So that's your main concern?" Khamul asked.  
"Yes," the Easterling chief said. His name was Ulfang, a name that did not inspire confidence in light of his First Age predecessor.  
"If the odds were evened, would you rebel?"  
"In an instant," Ulfang said. "Unfortunately, the odds aren't going to be even for some time to come."  
I need this man and his tribe, Khamul thought. He's got command of the most Easterlings in Middle-Earth. I need him. But what can I give him? Ah well, let's try the normal strategy.  
"If you fight for me, you can keep all the plunder."  
Ulfang frowned. "All the plunder?" he asked suspiciously.  
"Oh yes, all of it. I don't need it. And besides, I think having me on your side will even the odds considerably."  
Ulfang's eyes narrowed. "What are you?" he asked.  
Khamul grinned. "Someone who can give you vengeance."  
"All the plunder?" Ulfang asked once more.  
"Yes! All the damn plunder! Now fight for me, dammit!"


	42. Anarion's Blood

"Farewell, my dear," Narmacil said, tenderly kissing his wife on the cheek. "I will see you soon after I've dealt with these upstarts."  
Dabbing at her eyes, the queen nodded. "Farewell," she said.  
"I will manage Gondor in your stead, Father," young Calimhetar promised. "I will keep the throne safe for when you return."  
Already an adult, Calimhetar was going to be one of Gondor's finest kings. Narmacil could feel it. He just hoped the responsibility of kingship wouldn't land on his son's shoulders too soon.  
"I will dispatch these Wainriders swiftly and be home before Yule."  
The sun shone down on the army of Gondor, glinting off their steel breastplates and spears. The black flag with its white tree flew in a brisk wind.  
Good signs, Narmacil thought. Good omens for a swift victory.  
Not two years into his reign, the blasted Wainriders had arisen, forged together from many conquered Easterling tribes. They raided Gondor's farms, slaughtered her peasants, and exacted tribute from her former vassals. The Wainriders had now overrun the provinces east of the Anduin. They had to be dealt with.  
"We head to Rhovanion," Narmacil told his general. "Their army is there, and that is where we shall destroy them."  
"Yes, my king," the general said. His face betrayed his unease. "My king…there are many Wainriders. What if there are too many?"  
Narmacil did not let these thoughts enter his head. "We will conquer them," he said.  
"But what if…"  
"We will win. The Easterlings are lesser men, and in us flows the blood of Numenor."  
"Yes, my king," the general said. The look of unease had increased to full-blown fear.  
What is there to fear? Narmacil thought. He looked behind him at the stream of soldiers. He'd only taken a fraction of Gondor's might. Someone had to keep the Haradrim in line in the south, and these were only Easterlings. True, they had troubled the farmers and settlers, but they would run as soon as they saw a real soldier.  
The lands before the army were deserted, strangely free of Easterlings or indeed any other type of people.  
"Curious," Narmacil commented.  
"They heard we were coming," the general said, looking even more worried. "My king, perhaps we should gather the rest of the army and return."  
"No. We continue."  
The general sighed. "Yes, my king."  
Three weeks journey brought them to Rhovanion, where spies said the Easterling army was.  
"I don't see anyone," Narmacil said, glancing around.   
"There are many bushes in this land," the general muttered. "They could be hiding anywhere."  
A wild warcry startled both king and general. Out of the bushes streamed Easterlings painted in earth colors so as to blend into their surroundings.  
"Ambush!" the general roared.  
It was too late. The brave soldiers of Gondor died where they stood, some not even having the chance to draw their sword.  
"How is this possible?" Narmacil gasped.  
"Oh, it's very possible," the general growled. He cut down an Easterling as the man lunged at his horse.  
"But…but…we're Numenoreans!"  
The general just rolled his eyes and continued attempting to defend his flustered king. He clashed swords with many Easterlings, killing them all, but never did the spark of hope enter him that he might live out this day.  
That knowledge was verified as he crossed swords with a Haradrim. Curious, to see a Haradrim out of Harad. And it was a woman. Even curiouser.   
She was quite the fighter, and the general felt uneasy in her presence. There was some foul magic here, he was sure of it. They fought for a while, but at last she broke through his guard, there was a splatter of red, and his vision went dark.  
"Foul creature," Narmacil snarled, spurring his horse toward the woman who had killed his general.  
"Ah, you must be the king," she said. She didn't seem at all perturbed that she was facing the king of Gondor, heir of Anarion, descendent of Numenor.  
"Indeed I am," Narmacil said. "And you shall pay for this destruction!"  
"Oh, I don't think so," the woman said. "I must admit, killing you will be a treat. I've never killed a descedent of Anarion before."  
Narmacil's blood ran cold. Had this creature killed his relatives in the north? Had Arveleg fallen to this monster?  
"Yes, I've killed Isildur's heirs," the woman said, swinging her sword and taking Narmacil's head off with one blow. "And Isildur himself."  
*  
"They celebrate too much," Khamul commented as the Wainriders drank themselves into a stupor after the victory in the Battle of the Plains.  
"Let them enjoy themselves," Ulfang said. "They killed the king of Gondor today."  
"I killed the king of Gondor."  
"And we killed his soldiers. It's a great day for us Easterlings. We have had our revenge."  
"Not yet," Khamul said, remembering Arveleg. "Narmacil has a son. He's going to come after us."  
"Ah, not yet, I think. He will be in mourning for his father for a long time."  
Considering Araval, I think not, Khamul thought. Well, I'm in charge and I'm sure not going to let this army get destroyed.  
"They better be sober by midday tomorrow," she warned.  
"Er…" Ulfang muttered.  
"Calimhetar's going to come after us, and I won't be drunk when he does!"  
"Yes, lord," Ulfang mumbled, casting an angry glare after her as Khamul walked off.  
So, a blow struck against Gondor, Khamul thought. I wonder what they'll make of that. Quite a lot, I bet. Enough that they don't care what happens to Arthedain in the north.


	43. Dagorlad

"Khamul killed Narmacil II," Morion said as he glanced over the letter. "Ceure doesn't exactly seem thrilled by it."  
"I think she likes Gondor more the longer she stays in it," Ringe said.   
"It probably reminds her of Numenor," Morion said. He frowned. "Maybe I shouldn't've left her there this long."  
"She isn't doing any harm."  
"Not yet. When the time comes to destroy Gondor though…"  
"She's still on our side. She won't protest."  
"I'm not so sure," Morion said, setting the letter down. "Ah well, at least Khamul's taken Gondor's eye off Arthedain."  
"There was another raid by Araval this morning, Vorea reported," Ringe said. "They torched a grainery and killed some orcs."  
"How many?"  
Ringe frowned, trying to remember. "Thirteen, I think."  
"Damn, I need the orcs. There's a pretty much endless supply of goblins, and the Men keep flowing across the mountains looking for riches, but the orcs… There aren't as many of them as I'd like."  
"Araval's trying to recolonize Cardolan."  
Morion chuckled. "Some settlers are in for nightmares then. The Barrow-Wights there should take care of that idea quickly."  
Morion was in a good mood. Ringe smiled. His lover was far too tense lately, mainly to do with Gondor and Arthedain's renewed contacts. But with this news from Khamul, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  
"Yanta and Metima are roaming the land, looking for elves," Ringe said. "They haven't found Feanor though."  
"And probably never will," Morion said. "I think Khamul knows where he is, but she won't tell anyone." There was bitterness in his voice.  
As long as the elf was still wandering Arda, Morgoth punished him, Ringe knew. He wished he could do something either about the elf or about Morgoth. The elf seemed the more likely option.  
"You shouldn't be mad at Khamul," Ringe said. Even though she was difficult to get along with some – most – of the time, he pitied her, though he knew she would cut his head off if she ever suspected. She was in love with Morion, who didn't know, and certainly wouldn't reciprocate.  
"Why not?" Morion asked, raising an eyebrow.  
He couldn't tell him. Khamul would kill him. But… Maybe Morion wouldn't get so mad at Khamul then. "Khamul loves you," Ringe said.  
Morion blinked several times. "What?"  
"She loves you. She doesn't want to admit it, and she certainly doesn't want to tell you, but she loves you."  
"She can't. She…she's always yelling at me! The barely-disguised insubordination! The thinly-veiled insults! How could she possibly love me? Why do you think this?"  
"She told me," Ringe said.  
"What?!"  
"Well…not in those terms. But I could tell."  
Morion rolled his eyes. "You thought wrong," he said. "She hates me because she wanted to be chief ringbearer. She doesn't think I'm doing the job right."  
Ringe sighed. "All right," he said. "Maybe she doesn't. She seemed awful mad about us though. Even worse than…" He didn't want to say Aica's name. It still hurt that they had gone their separate ways. She had been his only friend for so many years. And now she wouldn't even talk to him. It had been years since they'd said a word to each other.  
Morion shrugged. "Khamul never liked me, and she never liked you. Why should she like us when we're together? And besides, maybe she has Views."  
"Views on what?"  
"You know what I'm talking about. Views on us."  
"I think she does. I think she doesn't like it because she's in love with you."  
Morion sighed. Sometimes Ringe could be very thick. "She's not in love with me," he said. "She's jealous and spiteful. If there's another large battle anytime soon, stay clear of her. She'll probably take the chance to cut off your head."  
"She wouldn't do that," Ringe muttered, but he wasn't so sure.  
*  
"My king, the Wainriders have moved their army to the plains of Dagorlad."  
"Appropriate," Calimhetar said as he strapped on his breastplate. "That was the beginning of the end for Sauron, and so shall it be for the Easterlings."  
His general nodded. He was a good man, a descendent of King Telumhetar Umbardarcil himself. "The full army is rallied. When will we be moving out?"  
"Within the hour I hope."  
"Yes, my king. Will you be saying farewell to your mother?"  
Calimhetar shook his head. "She's locked herself in Rath Dinin with my father's body. She won't let anyone see her."  
"A shame, my king."  
"Vengeance will hopefully relieve her pain. At least, it will mine."  
Once more soldiers of Gondor in shining mail rode out of Minas Anor and across the Pelannor Fields, heading toward the great battle plain.   
*  
"Come on, you lazy bastards!" Khamul cursed, kicking one Easterling in the ribs. "You drunk bastards!"  
"It was a great victory," Ulfang said, though his face was oozing worry and he was wringing his hands.  
"It was a victory against a bunch of wine merchants! Get up! I've known better goblins than you! Get up, damn the lot of you! Calimhetar's coming and you're all passed out drunk!"  
"He won't be coming for quite some time," Ulfang said. "He will be in mourning."  
"Don't give me that! Get these men up and moving about within the hour or I'll have your head! He's coming, dammit!"  
Ulfang sighed and promised the Nazgul that he would have the men up. Oh yes, he thought. Calimhetar's coming. Oh yes. Calimhetar's coming as soon as pigs fly.  
"I've known Easterlings," Khamul told him as Ulfang roused his men. "I've known many good Easterlings. And not one of them was as stupid as your men!"  
"They like celebration."  
"Well I hope they like having their heads cut off because that's what's going to happen to them if they stay drunk any longer!"  
It took almost the entire day to get the Easterlings up and sober. And then night came and they all drank themselves half to death again.  
"This is futile!" Khamul groaned.  
The next day was cloudy and threatened rain. Khamul hoped it wouldn't storm and flood the nearby marshes. The last thing she wanted was the unburied dead of the Last Alliance floating around her.   
"Are they conscious?" she asked acidly as Ulfang trotted over to her.  
"Most of them," Ulfang reported. "A few are still sleeping."  
"So Calimhetar's only going to catch us mostly drunk then? Oh, that's good. That's very good indeed."  
"We moved camp precisely in case of the young king attacking us," Ulfang said. He gestured to the surrounding area. "I don't see anyone."  
"Oh shut up," Khamul said. "It's only a matter of time. You better have your men in outstanding shape tomorrow."  
"I will, I will," Ulfang said.   
"That's what you said yesterday!"  
"Everything will be fine by tomorrow."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "That's Gondor over there," she said, pointing toward Mindolluin. "That's not that far from here. Calimhetar can reach…oh dear Valar."  
"What is it?" Ulfang asked, looking around frantically.  
"They're attacking!" Khamul yelled, gesturing wildly toward the hill on which a line of cavalry had appeared. "Get up, you bastards! Calimhetar's here!"  
It was, of course, an utter and complete slaughter. How could it have been anything but? The Easterlings were killed as they slept or staggered around trying to find their weapons or armor. Ulfang got his head whacked off by the vengeful king himself.  
Every single Easterling was killed.   
But not Khamul.  
"Stupid, drunken bastards," she muttered as she jumped on her horse and drove it in the direction of the Dead Marshes. She hoped she could make it through without having an unpleasant encounter with someone she'd killed in the war.  
The horse disliked going into the marshes, but Khamul managed to convince it that going into the swamp was the only thing that was going to stop her from kicking it, so it finally relented and plunged into fetid water.  
In only a few minutes Khamul was soaked to the skin, but she didn't mind so long as they were moving away from the slaughter. None of the soldiers had noticed her running away, and she hoped that even if they did, they wouldn't bother pursuing one lone warrior across a dangerous, cursed land.  
The major question was what to do next. Ulfang and his tribe were dead, what was left? Khamul wasn't certain. She couldn't go back to Angmar. Calimhetar looked like just the sort of person who would marshal an army and send it to Arthedain's aid. No. He needed more trouble.   
The horse managed to find patches of dry land, but just as Khamul was beginning to dry off, it would plunge back into a pool. One was so deep it went to her chest and the horse floundered, not feeling the bottom of the water.  
"Dammit!" Khamul cursed as the horse threw her off and into the water. It scrambled to land and waited for her to swim over. As she did, something grabbed her wrist.  
The bodies! Looking into the water, Khamul saw faces. So many faces. Men, elves, orcs, even a few dwarves. They were all watching her with wide, dead eyes and pale faces.  
Jerking her hand out of the water, terrified to see what might be gripping it, Khamul rolled her eyes as she pulled out a bunch of waterweed.   
"I'm imagining things," she muttered, hauling herself onto shore. The eyes followed her though. They weren't imaginary.  
Sauron's magic must've leaked out of Mordor and into the water, Khamul decided, mounting her horse. There's nothing peculiar about that at all. I bet it happened all the time in Beleriand. There's nothing dangerous about them at all. They're just faces, not bodies.  
Khamul didn't rest easy until the faces were gone and the swamp water was swamp water again. It had been an especially uneasy night as small flames had sprung up across the marsh. They seemed to be pointing in directions, though Khamul didn't follow them. She'd have been mad if she did.  
"Ah, dry land," she muttered as a line of brown dirt appeared on the horizon early the next morning. "I'm looking forward to that." But she was still in enemy territory. There was no way she could return to Rhovanion and recruit more Easterlings. Gondor's army would be keeping a very close watch on them from now on.  
So where to now?   
Khamul smiled. If Calimhetar had taken his entire army to deal with Ulfang, then he'd left certain places unguarded. Certain places he really shouldn't have.  
The Haradrim were going to rise again.


	44. The Seer

Khamul didn't encounter a single soldier on her journey. In fact, she encountered very few people at all. The citizens of Gondor avoided Mordor like the plague (which they thought had originated in the Black Land), but Khamul couldn't have been happier to skulk in its shadows.  
The Poros Road wound through Ithilien into Harad, but it was a favorite haunt of soldiers eager to catch Haradrim or Easterlings sneaking into Gondor. Calimehtar had truly emptied the land of soldiers though, for although Khamul jumped at shadows, she never encountered anything more substantial than a few chipmunks.  
The day was bright and cloudless, flowers were blooming, and the whole land smelled wonderful. Khamul was enjoying the feeling of the sun on her back when she noticed movement up ahead. And this time it wasn't a chipmunk.  
It was too late to pull the cowl over head and pretend that she was a traveler, so Khamul gripped her sword and prepared to cut someone's head off.  
Fortunately, it wasn't a soldier, only an old man. He wandered along, muttering to himself, and didn't even seem to notice Khamul. He was coming from Harad, but he certainly wasn't a Haradrim. He looked like a man of Gondor, although he might've had some Easterling blood in him.  
Khamul was just going to ignore him and pass by, but as she approached the old man stopped his walk and looked up.  
"Ah, the Black Easterling," he said.  
Khamul jerked the reins. "What did you say?" she snapped.  
"That is what they're calling you. The Black Easterling. On account of the unusual color of your skin for an Easterling."  
"And why do you think I'm an Easterling?" Khamul asked, putting aside the more obvious question of 'how do you know who I am?' for now.  
"You led an army of Easterlings," the old man said. "That seems like a very good reason."  
"And how do you know who I am?"  
The old man shrugged. "I see things," he said.  
"Oh, one of those. Tell me, what else do you 'see'?" Khamul snapped.  
The old man looked at her curiously. "You're from the south," he said.  
"Oh, well done!"  
"But also from the north. You are split between two lands."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. Her clothing was atypical for the south kingdom. It didn't take a mystic to guess she was from the colder Arnor.  
"I see that you are planning to return to the north," the old man said. "You do not know it yet, but you will take a companion with you. A noble, wise, man, old in years, but young in heart."  
"You?"   
The old man grinned. "Yes," he said. "That's right. See? The prophecy's coming true already."  
Khamul scowled at him. "If you want to go to Arthedain, get yourself a boat," she snapped. "You aren't coming with me. Besides, I'm not going to the north."  
The old man sighed. "I don't have any money," he said.  
"Then walk."  
"I'll get killed by goblins."  
"Bad luck."  
"I could be useful to you," the old man said. "I can predict the future!"  
"Right."  
"I foresaw our meeting! And I knew you were the Black Easterling."  
"You didn't 'foresee' our meeting," Khamul growled. "And I must be the only Haradrim on this roads for years. If you'd heard about the battle, then it wouldn't take a genius to guess who I am."  
"A lesser woman might've believed me," the old man said.  
"So you admit you're a fraud?"  
"I've been known to make the occasional accurate prophecy or two."  
"Sure you have. Go away, all right? I don't like killing people I've talked to."  
"Can I come with you?" the old man asked.  
"No."  
"I'm very useful. I can convince your enemies to leave you alone or else they will be stricken with plague."  
"Go away."  
"I can heal people," the old man said as he hurried after Khamul who had started down the road again. "Well, most ailments. I can set bones, too! I'm incredibly useful!"  
"I said go away!"  
"I have no money! I'll be killed by bandits! I'll starve in the streets of Minas Anor!"  
"I heard from a passing traveler that Calimehtar's building a victory monument in the capital. He'll need workers, which could include you," Khamul said.  
"I'm too old," the old man said. "Besides, I see that this monument is cursed."  
"I don't believe you and I never will. So be quiet!"  
"I see eyes in the white tower! Eyes! Looking forth across the land, hoping to do good, but seeing naught but ill and going mad! Mad!"  
"How do you know it's a white tower he's building?" Khamul asked.  
The old man tapped his head. "I see things."  
"You see with your head?"  
"I see with the inner eye."  
"You just said you were a fraud!"  
"Not always," the old man muttered. "Not always."  
"Do you know anything about the Haradrim?" Khamul asked.  
"I lived with them for a while. Very good food."  
"Can you speak the language?"  
"Yes."  
"Good. All right then, you can come with me, but no more prophecies."  
"Of course," the old man said.  
"And you have to keep up with me."  
"No problem." The old man whistled and a pony trotted out of the forest. "An old man walking discourages bandits who might otherwise try to take the horse," he explained.   
Khamul scowled. "What's your name anyway?" she snapped.  
The old man smiled. "Malbeth. Malbeth the Seer."


	45. To Arthedain

"It warms my heart to see one of my people risen so high in the world," the priest said with a smile that showed a mouthful of rotten teeth.   
"But…?" Khamul asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"Alas, but our leader has been taken captive by the Gondorians."  
Khamul sighed. "Well, then he's dead. Pick another leader."  
"But that is where I fear you are mistaken. There is this king…Calimehtar. His father renewed communications with the northern kingdom…Arthedain."  
Khamul had a bad feeling about this.  
"They exchanged gifts and words about alliance. Nothing substantial. However, this Calimehtar's father decided to turn over our leader to this northern king. I believe it was something about 'this is what we have to deal with'. Something like that."  
"So you want your leader back," Khamul said.  
"Yes," the priest said.  
"And you'll make an alliance with me once your leader's back?"  
"I have considerable influence over many tribes, both in the desert and in the far-off jungle. If you bring back Chief Harwan, I shall exert that influence on your behalf."  
In other words, I get my army. "You want me to travel all the way to Arthedain and get this Harwan?" Khamul asked.  
"If you want our aid, then that is what you will do."  
Khamul sighed and stood up. "Come on, Malbeth," she snapped. "I'm not going to go ride through Gondor. Calimehtar'll be on his guard."  
"So where will we go?" the old man asked.  
"We'll have to try the sea, and there's only one place around here that's got a port. Umbar."  
*  
"Another Haradrim! They're pouring in like ants!"  
Khamul's hand went reflexively to her sword, but she managed to stop herself from drawing it and cutting the bastard's head off. She needed to keep a low profile in this filthy town that should never have been rebuilt.  
After its second destruction, Umbar had gradually rebuilt itself and now was almost to its former glory. Ships went everywhere for a price, though they tended to be Corsair ships that raided the shores of Gondor.  
"To the north," Malbeth whispered. "Excellent."  
"Yeah, that's where you wanted to go, isn't it?" Khamul muttered. "Why?"  
Malbeth shrugged. "I've seen most of the south in my time, but the north intrigues me. Does it snow there?"  
"Yes."  
"Fascinating. When it melts, is it really water?"  
"Yes."  
"I look forward to seeing it."  
"It's spring," Khamul said. "I hope it doesn't snow." She smiled suddenly, spotting a ship that wasn't a Corsair's vessel.  
"That ship?" Malbeth asked, looking doubtfully at the bobbing boat. It was fairly small, little more than a fishing craft. The sails were patched together and the whole ship looked like it'd seen better days.  
"Looks perfect," Khamul said. "Hey!" she called. "Anybody there?"  
A head appeared on the deck, shortly followed by a body. "What do you want?" the man demanded. He looked northern, a good sign.  
"Where are you heading?"  
"Why do you care?"  
"If you're going to Arthedain, you've got two paying customers!"  
"Looks like I'm going to Arthedain then," the man said. "Better fishing there, too, although the winters are damn cold. Go much further north and you could get trapped in the ice."  
Having seen several ships suffer this fate, Khamul had to agree. "How much you charge?" she asked.  
"Eight silver pennies each?" the man suggested. "It's a long journey," he protested as Khamul scowled.  
"I will gladly pay for both our fares," Malbeth said, taking out a purse and handing the man eight pennies. "You'll get the rest when we arrive."  
"I thought you said you didn't have any money!" Khamul snapped.  
"You might've robbed me."  
"I still might!"  
"So, masters," the man on the ship said with a greedy smile, "when do you want to leave?"  
*  
"I believe you mentioned something about having been on a ship before," Malbeth said.  
"That was a long time ago," Khamul groaned. I'm immortal and damn near invulnerable, she thought. So why am I getting seasick?  
"I must admit that the seas have been a bit rough of late."  
Khamul snorted. That was the understatement of the century, if not the millennia. Storms pounded the small fishing boat, waves swamped the deck, and the wind tossed it like a piece of paper. However, there was one good thing about the ghastly weather: it meant they were getting close to Arthedain.  
"Weather always gets bad when you go north," said the captain (he was first mate and boson, not to mention the entire crew, as well). "We'll be seeing land soon. A couple of days at most."  
"I can't wait to get out of here," Khamul grumbled, trying to stretch her legs in the cramped, narrow bed. "I swear, if Araval's had Harwan executed, I'm going to cut off his head myself."  
"How are we going to get into Fornost in the first place?" Malbeth asked. "I can see myself getting in, but you…"  
"I'll think of a way," Khamul said. "What's Arthedain like right now anyway?" she asked the captain later when she felt well enough to go on deck.  
"I expect it'll have changed somewhat since the last time I was there," the captain said.  
"Which was when?"  
"About a year or two ago," the captain said after some thought. "Araval's still king, but I heard his son married. His wife'll probably have a kid soon."  
"The line continues," Khamul snarled. "With no end in sight!"  
The captain looked surprised. "I was wondering what a Haradrim wanted to go to Arthedain for," he said, "but now I think it might be for assassination."  
"Don't be an idiot. One of my countrymen is there, so I'm going to break him out."  
"Oh. Just that?"  
"Yeah, just that." And kill anyone who gets in my way.  
The captain nodded, but he looked worried.  
The next day saw the dawn rising over mountains and forests. Khamul had never been so glad to see the land before.  
"Well, that's the shore," the captain said. "I suppose I could go to the Grey Havens, but I doubt you'd like that, would you?"  
"No," Khamul said.   
"Can you go up the Baranduin?" Malbeth asked. "All the way to the bend in the river near Lake Evendim? That would put us quite close to Fornost."  
"I suppose I could," the captain muttered. "It's hard sailing upriver though."  
"How much extra do you want?" Khamul asked.  
The captain grinned. "You know how a man's mind works," he said.  
"Unfortunately."  
"Three silver pennies."  
"Done. Five if you get us there fast."  
"Yes, master!" The man started bustling around the deck, tying off ropes here, unwinding some there. Khamul hadn't the faintest idea what was going on, but it was entertaining to watch.  
It was slow going up the river, but it took less time and trouble than a ride through enemy territory. Khamul mostly stayed below deck, while Malbeth wandered around, watching the land and commenting on the scenery. The captain finally got so annoyed of having him talking constantly that he ordered Khamul to the deck. Not one to obey orders, Khamul had considered refusing, but then took pity on the man.   
"What a cheerful land," Malbeth said. It had only been two hours and already Khamul felt like strangling him.  
"Yeah, it looks great," Khamul said.  
They were looking out on the western side of the river, a green land full of flowers and rolling hills. Somewhere in the distance was a cloud break and golden sunlight streamed down, making everything seem richer and more splendid.  
"The other side of the river…" Malbeth didn't finish the sentence.  
The Arthedain side of the Baranduin was gray with skeletal trees, marshy ground, and dark, cloudy skies. The trees huddled close together as if for protection, and most of the plants were low and dense, as if trying to escape attention.  
"Who lives there?" Khamul asked, gesturing to the sunny side. Such stark opposites, and they were just a river apart.  
"I've never met anyone from there," the captain said with a frown. "One of the kings gave some people the land. It used to be a royal hunting ground. They call it 'The Shire' now."  
"Humans, I suppose," Khamul said.  
"Really short humans," the captain said. "One of my friends knew a few of the people. 'Halflings' they're called."  
"A different race?" Malbeth asked. "How curious." He scanned the land for any hint of inhabitants, midgets or no. "Regrettably, it seems they don't live precisely here."  
"Nice land they've got, the lucky bastards," Khamul said.  
Malbeth put on the mystic air he got when he was making a 'prophecy'. "I foresee that you shall see this land again," he said. "You shall meet with the Halflings and you shall exchange words with them."  
"Shut up," Khamul said. "I don't want to meet the damn midgets." Although she wouldn't mind spending some time in their land. It looked very nice. Quite a change from the dreariness of Arthedain or the blazing heat of Harad.  
"We'll be at a bend in the river by tomorrow," the captain said. "That's the closest it is to Fornost. You want off there?"  
Khamul nodded, still watching this Shire place.  
"It's still a good day's ride to Fornost."  
"That's why we brought the horses."  
The captain nodded, grimacing. It had taken some extra money to convince him to allow them to bring their horses, but he was making enough money on this trip to nearly let him retire, so he'd agreed.  
The next day was even darker than the last. Gray, threatening clouds loomed overhead, and as Khamul and Malbeth departed the ship on their horses, the clouds broke forth into a pouring rain.  
"Well, this is just great," Khamul muttered as she tugged her hood over her head.   
"If it were a bright, sunny day then we would be more likely to be noticed," Malbeth pointed out. "People don't pay as much attention to other people when there's bad weather."  
"It'll probably clear up by the time we get to Fornost," Khamul grumbled.   
"Speaking of that," Malbeth said. "Do we actually have a plan?"


	46. Arthedain's Prophecy

Two horses and their sopping wet riders straggled up to the gates of Fornost. The guards were wet as well, not to mention cold, tired, and hungry, and they didn't see the point in going into thorough questioning of a couple of travelers. What were the chances that they were going to be in league with Angmar? Pretty minimal.  
"That was easy," Khamul said with a frown as the city gates shut behind them. "If I knew it was that easy I'd have persuaded Morion to try an assassination. And not just of the king. I could've gotten the entire royal family. Maybe I still can," she said with a gleam in her eye.  
"I would advise against that," Malbeth said. "If you kill everyone, there's a very good chance of Harwan getting killed as well."  
"If he's even still alive."  
"He's a curiosity," Malbeth said. "People don't kill curiosities."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "We made it past the city gates," she said, changing the subject, "but we still have to get into the castle. That's going to be much harder."  
"We could climb in through a window," Malbeth said.  
"A window?"  
"Yes, a window. Look there." Malbeth pointed at the huge castle that overshadowed the town around it. "You can just barely see it, but there's a window open."  
"It's about a hundred feet up."  
"You climb up and throw a rope down for me," Malbeth said. "We'll do it tonight when there's less chance of being seen."  
"I can't climb," Khamul hissed.  
"Have you ever tried?"  
"No! That's why I can't!"  
"Now's your chance to learn."  
*  
This was an extremely bad idea. It was a bad idea for a lot of reasons, but most of them had to do with climbing the wall of a castle by using two daggers. First of all, what would happen if the daggers broke? Second, what happened if she slipped?  
One hundred feet, Khamul thought. One hundred feet of pulling myself up by my arms. Great. Oh, this is just so fantastic I can hardly believe it.  
It was pitch black out and Khamul was worried she was going to miss the window or go right over the wall. Falling into the courtyard didn't seem like a great idea.  
Finally, as she reached for another handhold, her hand went into a room. Still didn't bother to close the window, eh? she thought. Good for me.  
Swinging herself through the window and sheathing her daggers, Khamul glanced around. It looked like someone's bedroom, but she didn't think there was anyone inside. Still, she had to make sure.  
Walking over to the bed, Khamul poked the blankets and was relieved to hear no squeals or feel anything human.  
Why does he need to come up? Khamul thought as she secured one end of a rope she'd kept over her shoulder to one of the posts of the bed, and threw the other out the window. Within moments the rope tensed as Malbeth began to climb up.  
Suppose someone walks in, Khamul thought. What do I do then?  
There was a simple answer to that question, but she wanted to avoid bloodshed. Violence had the tendency to draw more attention to a break-in.  
"Is anyone here?" Malbeth asked as he crawled in through the window.  
"No," Khamul said. "Not yet anyway. We've got to hurry though. Someone could be along anytime."  
Malbeth nodded and glanced at the rope. "Should we do something about that?" he asked.  
"We need a way to get back down," Khamul snapped. "Come on." She walked over to the door and peeked out into the hallway. It was empty.  
"Is it empty?" Malbeth asked, glancing over her shoulder.  
"Yeah," Khamul muttered. She frowned. "This is weird."  
"What?"  
"It's empty."  
"So?"  
"This is a castle, home of the king, in a time of war. You'd think there'd at least be some guards wandering around. Or a bunch of maids. Someone."  
"It is peculiar," Malbeth said, "but perhaps they're busy somewhere else."  
"Somewhere else?" Khamul sneered. "I don't think so. There's something strange here."  
"Are we just going to stand in the doorway then?" Malbeth snapped.   
Khamul bit back a furious retort and walked out into the hallway, hand clenched on her sword.  
"You walk like we're going to be attacked any minute," Malbeth said.  
"We might be."  
"We certainly are if anyone sees you walking like that."  
"We're going to be attacked if anyone sees me," Khamul said. "I don't exactly fit in around here."  
"Except for Harwan."  
"If he's even alive," Khamul muttered.  
Khamul's apprehension increased as they wandered down the apparently abandoned hallway. There was no noise, no sound, no sight of anyone. Fornost was alive and bustling with people, shouldn't its castle be the same?  
"That looks like an interesting place," Malbeth commented when they reached an intersection of several hallways. He abruptly took the one furthest to the right and made for an ornately carved door.  
"What are you doing?!" Khamul hissed, running after him. The old man could move surprisingly fast though, and he had already opened the door by the time Khamul reached him.  
Inside the room was a horde of men sitting or standing, talking quietly. One man paced back and forth, wringing his hands occasionally. Near him sat an older man who looked like him, and occasionally glanced up with irritation at the pacing man.  
The talking, pacing, and glancing stopped immediately when Malbeth and Khamul walked in.  
"Who are you?" the pacing man asked, raising an eyebrow. Several hands went to swords.  
"I am a great prophet!" Malbeth exclaimed, holding up his hands for silence. "Malbeth the Seer they call me! I have traveled unknown leagues to bear witness to this great event!"  
The formerly pacing man suddenly looked hopeful. "Does that mean everything's going to be okay?" he asked the seated man.  
"Don't be an idiot," the other man snapped, standing up. "Do you know who I am?" he asked Malbeth, ignoring Khamul completely.  
"Yes, indeed, great sir," Malbeth said with a slight bow. "You are King Araval, the greatest king of Arthedain."  
There were a few murmurs of agreement at this, but Araval silenced them with a scowl.  
"I hate fawning yes-men," he snarled. "So," His attention was back on Malbeth, "you still claim to be a seer?"  
"Yes, indeed, sire."  
"And you've come to give us some sort of prophecy?"  
"Yes, sire. You are most intelligent."  
"About my son?" Araval's son asked.  
"Yes," Malbeth said, nodding.  
They breed like rats, Khamul thought. Araval, Araphant, and now his son… something that begins with Ar- probably.   
"And what would this prophecy be?" Araval asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"I cannot say, sire, until I see the baby."  
"You will not be seeing any grandson of mine. How did you get in here anyway? And who is that with you?"  
"This is my loyal servant, Khamul," Malbeth said, gesturing to the ringbearer. "I heard this unborn child's physic call from lands afar and journeyed here to deliver my prophecy. Mere walls could not keep me out."  
Araval rolled his eyes. "Throw this buffoon out," he snapped.  
A group of large men detached themselves from the rest of the crowd and began moving with purpose toward Malbeth and Khamul.   
He's got nerve, I'll give him that, Khamul thought, watching Malbeth. Imagine! Me, his servant! I'd kill him for it if it wasn't a brilliant scam.   
Just as the men were about to grab Malbeth, a door on the other side of the room flew open and a young woman rushed out.  
"Great lords!" she exclaimed. She bowed to Araval and then to Araphant. "Your wife has given birth! To a son!"  
Araphant breathed a sigh of relief. "Is she all right?" he asked. "It was a difficult labor."  
"She is fine, great sires! Please, come see the baby!"  
Malbeth and Khamul momentarily forgotten, the crowd began to move toward the other door.  
"Now's our chance to get out," Khamul said, grabbing Malbeth by the arm. "We can find Harwan and be on our way back to Harad before they know we're gone."  
"I don't think I'll be going back to Harad," Malbeth said, shaking off Khamul's hand and following the lords through the door.  
"What are you doing, you idiot?" Behind her anger, a little voice in Khamul was saying, this is my chance. I can rid the world of the king of Arthedain and all his descendents. I can end the line of Isildur forever.   
Hand straying to her sword, Khamul followed Malbeth and emerged in a crowded bedroom where a weary, sweat-soaked woman lay on a large bed, almost unconscious. Araphant knelt near her, holding her hand and talking softly to a small bundle in the crook of her arm. Araval stood nearby, looking proud.  
Khamul was about to draw her sword, kill the nobles, end this millennia-long vendetta, but there was something… There was something about the scene. She didn't see a vengeful warlord in Araval's eyes, but a new grandfather, immensely proud of both child and grandchild. And there was such tenderness in Araphant's eyes as he looked at his infant son and wife. Khamul was ready to draw the blade, but for some reason her hand wouldn't move. It was stuck fast to the hilt and frozen there like stone.  
Malbeth was busy pushing himself through the crowd as Araphant murmured to Araval, "What shall we call him?"  
Suddenly, Malbeth froze. It was such a sudden lack of movement that it startled others and a space suddenly cleared around him. Malbeth still didn't move, and it attracted the attention of Araval.  
"What's he doing here?" the king snapped. "Get him out."  
"Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again."  
Khamul blinked. Was this really Malbeth talking? It didn't sound like him at all. It was as if his voice was coming through a long tunnel. It was loud and reverberated in the room. It sounded like a real prophecy. Was it really?  
"Arvedui," Araphant said quietly, touching the baby's head. "Arvedui."  
"You are a prophet," Araval said quietly. "Last King," he whispered. "The last king of Arthedain."  
"But for good or for ill?" a noble asked.  
Araval looked at Malbeth and Khamul knew that the old man had the king in the palm of his hand.   
"I do not know," Malbeth said. Khamul could tell he was back to his old self again. Whatever had happened, it was over.  
"You have given us a great prophecy," Araval said. "Please, sir, what can we give you in exchange for our cruel words earlier and this gift?"  
Khamul nudged Malbeth in the ribs.  
"Sire, if it pleases you, I would like your captive, a Haradrim called Harwan."  
Araval frowned. "Harwan? Why him? I'd gladly give you as many riches as you ask for."  
"No, sire, please. I wish for Harwan…and a position here at court."  
So this was Malbeth's motive, Khamul thought. All right, fine. She could get back to Harad and deal with the Haradrim herself.  
"Very well," Araval said. "What do you want with Harwan though?"  
"Harwan is my servant's brother. I promised her her brother and a trip back home to Harad."  
"I will provide the boat," Araval said. "The journey is dangerous and long. And besides, Harwan has become a friend of mine. I never heard anything about a sister though." He frowned at Khamul briefly, but then shrugged.  
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Malbeth said with a bow.


	47. Khamul's Prophecy

"You're not my sister," Harwan muttered when the ringbearer finally met him.  
"I know. Shut up," Khamul hissed. "I'm taking you back to Harad."  
"I quite like it here actually. Although the weather is a little wet."  
"You're going back to Harad. Your people need you!"  
Harwan sighed. He was a very handsome man, and Khamul was rather looking forward to the journey back to Harad, provided she didn't get seasick again.  
"Have you seen them?" he asked. "Is the old priest still there?"  
"Yes, he's fine," Khamul said. "You'll come?"  
"I hardly have a choice, do I?" Harwan's eyes narrowed. "What's this about anyway?" he asked. "Why are you impersonating a sister I never even had?"  
"I'll explain later."  
"I'd prefer it now."  
"Your priest runs the tribe now, but he needs your help. If I rescue you, he'll call in all his favors and give me an army to destroy Gondor with."  
Harwan's eyes widened. "You want to make war with Gondor?" he gasped.  
"Yes," Khamul said. "Destroy, actually. I did use that word."  
"You're mad!"  
"No, not mad," Khamul said. "I've got a plan actually. A very good plan."  
Harwan looked torn. On one half, he wanted to keep his people safe, and war with Gondor put them in incredible danger. On the other hand, if Gondor were vanquished, his people would never need to fear the Numenorean realm-in-exile again. What Khamul wasn't telling him though, was that she had no intention of actually destroying Gondor. It was just plain impossible.   
"I'll do it," the Haradrim chief said at last. "But if Araval comes to Gondor's aid, I'm pulling out. He's a good man and I won't fight him."  
"Fair enough," Khamul said. There was absolutely no chance of that happening, what with Arthedain trying in vain to fend off Angmar. And soon enough Arvedui would be on the throne…Arvedui, the last king of Arthedain. Might he be the last because Khamul would put a sword in his chest, ending the line of Isildur?  
"I shall go pack," Harwan said. He gave Khamul a dark look as he left. Could he sense Sauron's malice in the ring? Did he know what she really was? Possibly. Or maybe it was just because she was a female taking the initiative. Nobody in any land liked that. Except for Lorien. And no one would say a word against Galadriel because she had an elf ring and could zap people. Probably.  
Khamul took the long way through the castle and wondered at it. She'd spent three days here as Araval's honored guest. Ironic, wasn't it? She'd spent her life trying to destroy him and everything he loved, and here she was, his honored guest. And she wasn't trying to kill him either. Strange, that.   
It'll end with Arvedui, Khamul thought. Not before, and not after.  
"Enjoying yourself here?" Khamul asked as she ran into Malbeth near the gate of the castle.  
"I think I will," Malbeth said with a smile.  
"Was that a real prophecy you gave the king?"  
"Yes. I told you I did them sometimes."  
"But it was real?"  
"Yes."  
Khamul shook her head. "I can't believe it," she said. "You're a fantastic liar. You're a fraud!"  
"This was real."  
"It wasn't."  
"It was," Malbeth protested. "Arvedui will be the last king in Arthedain. Just watch."  
Khamul's eyes narrowed. She'd told Malbeth about her plans towards Gondor, but hadn't mentioned the ring. By the time Arvedui ascended the throne, she should be long dead. "I'll be dead by then," she said.  
"Oh, yes, of course," Malbeth said with a knowing smile, "forgive me."  
"So will you."  
"Yes, yes, of course."  
"So we'll both be dead."  
"Oh yes."  
"I'm going to get my horse," Khamul muttered. "Have a nice life."  
"Wait," Malbeth said.  
"What?"  
"I've got a prophecy for you."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "What?" she snapped.  
Malbeth was as still as a statue and Khamul got an uneasy feeling. A few nearby soldiers and peasants crowded around, eager to hear this new prophecy.  
What's he going to say? Khamul thought, starting to panic. He could mention Sauron or a thousand other things she didn't want anyone to know. Shut up, she thought. Shut up, Malbeth. Don't say a word!  
"Over the land there lies a long shadow," Malbeth said in the prophetic tones, "westward reaching wings of darkness. The tower trembles to the tombs of kings. Doom approaches. The dead awaken. For the hour has come for the oathbreakers, at the stone of Erech they shall stand again. And here there a horn in the hills be ringing. Whom's shall the horn be? Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the north he shall come. Need shall drive him. He shall pass the door to the Paths of the Dead."  
There was some applause as Malbeth finished. Khamul slipped away in the crowd and hurried to the horses, hoping Harwan would be waiting for her.  
"You look like you've seen a ghost," the Haradrim said. He was already on a fine chestnut mare, looking ready to be off. Several soldiers of Arthedain were around him, ready to escort their lord's honored guests to their ship.  
"Malbeth gave another prophecy," Khamul said, swinging onto the large black horse. She'd left it near an inn the night of the break-in, but somehow it had found its way to the castle. It was funny like that.  
"About you?"  
"I don't know what it was about," Khamul said. The Paths of the Dead. What was that? Erech…I've heard that somewhere before.   
Throughout the journey to Lake Evendim, and even during the journey downriver, Khamul hardly spoke to Harwan at all. Her mind was preoccupied with the prophecy. She tried to unravel it, understand what it meant, but she had no idea.  
It's about some guy, Khamul thought as the sea appeared on the horizon. There's evil in the land – Sauron, probably – and it's all doom and gloom. Then this guy shows up from the north and summons these…oathbreaker people with a horn call. He's the heir of the man the people swore the oath to, so he's calling them to fulfill it. But what was the oath? And what are these Paths of the Dead? They sure don't sound good.  
And, most importantly, how do I fit into this? Malbeth said it was a prophecy for me, but nobody's ever sworn an oath to me, and besides, I don't have kids.   
"Are you still thinking about this prophecy?" Harwan asked.  
"Yes," Khamul said.  
"I thought about it as well," Harwan said. Khamul had told him the prophecy a few days ago, hoping he would catch something she'd missed. "Perhaps it's about Arvedui," he said.  
"Another one about him? I think he's got enough prophecies."  
"He is the heir of Elendil. That's a mighty heritage."  
"It probably is about Numenor," Khamul said. She scowled. "Everything's about them, the lucky bastards."  
"They were destroyed when their island drowned," Harwan said, shocked. "How could you possibly think they're lucky?" His face soured. "But then again, you think you're going to use the Haradrim to destroy Gondor."  
"You agreed," Khamul growled.  
"I did, and I don't renege on my promises, as these people in the prophecy apparently did."  
"They got what they deserved at least," Khamul said. "I think I understand that part."  
"Really? What is it?"  
"The guy they swore the oath to died a long time ago if his heir – not son or grandson – is calling the people. The people must've died a long time ago, too, but they still answer the call. And then there's the little matter of the Paths of the Dead."  
Harwan's eyes widened. "You think these people are dead?"  
"Yes," Khamul said, nodding. "I think I do."  
Harwan shook his head. "It must just be a saying or some such thing. They can't actually be…"  
"They are," Khamul said. "I'm sure of it."  
It took them months, but at last they reached Umbar, where the Arthedain ship deposited them before returning to the north.  
"I'd forgotten all the sand," Harwan said.  
"So did I," Khamul muttered.   
"So…what now?"  
Khamul grinned. She was back in familiar territory. With Harwan returned, the priest would rally the tribes, and then they would have a force to be reckoned with. However, if she really wanted to throw Gondor into panic, she was going to need something more than the Haradrim.  
With the deaths of so many leaders, the Easterlings were in a panic. If they were to find a new chief then they could attack Gondor from the east while the Haradrim attacked from the south.  
The priest and Harwan seemed capable enough to handle the Haradrim. It was time for Khamul to return to Rhovanion.


	48. Firiel

"Father, I don't understand…"  
The general of Gondor sighed and paused a moment to say goodbye to his young son. "I have to go to the north," he said, kneeling to look his son in the eye.  
"Why?"  
"The king's daughter is being married to Araphant's son. I'm escorting her." The general winced. "King Araphant," he corrected himself.  
"King?"  
"Yes. His father died a while ago. To celebrate his coronation, he's been arranging to have his son marry Princess Firiel."  
"Why?"  
The general heaved an exasperated sigh. His young son was far too inquisitive. "King Araphant wants to reunite the kingdoms of Gondor and lost Arnor. He thinks it will make us stronger against mutual enemies."  
His son frowned. "What does 'mutual' mean?"  
"Enemies we have in common. Like the orcs," the general muttered. "I have to go now. Be good."  
The general tried not to look at his son's face as he left. He knew the sight would break his heart.  
"Father."  
"What is it?"  
"Will I ever be king someday?"  
The general chuckled and shook his head. "Don't cause your mother too much grief while I'm gone Earnur," he said.  
The rest of the procession was waiting for him. Impatiently, in the case of Princess Firiel, who rode a horse like a man. It was considered quite scandalous in Gondor, but upon being told of it, neither Arvedui nor his father could understand the scandal of it.  
"Are you ready now, General Earnil?" Firiel asked. Her voice was a little too deep, her skin a little too sallow, her eyes were rather sunken, but her hair was like spun gold. It shone in the sunlight like a field of wheat.   
"Yes, Princess," Earnil said, mounting his horse. "I had to say farewell to my son."  
Firiel nodded. "Young Earnur. He's a very happy child, isn't he?"  
Earnil frowned. His son was happy, curious, and so many other things besides. He had his good points though. "He'll be a good general in his time."  
"With the Wainriders defeated, how much longer will we need a general?"  
Earnil chuckled. Trust a woman to ask that. "The Haradrim are massing in the south. Something's got them all riled up. And the Easterlings are stirring again. No, I'm afraid you'll still be needing a general for some time to come."  
Firiel nodded. She was frowning now, and Earnil suspected she'd caught the meaning of his chuckle. "It will be a long journey to Arthedain, will it not be?"   
"Yes, quite long. Several months, I should say."  
"I see."  
The iciness was palpable. "Have you met young Arvedui?" No, stupid question. Of course she hasn't.   
"No."  
"I hear he's the spitting image of his father," Earnill said. "Apparently a seer named him. Malbeth. Never heard of him before."  
"It means 'last king'," Firiel said. Her frowned deepened. "I don't like the sound of that."  
"Ah, seers. They speak in riddles. He probably meant 'last king of Arthedain' or something. Perhaps Arnor will be rebuilt in his time."  
Firiel cast Earnil a pitying glance. "No," she said.  
*  
"Something's changed here," Metima said, gingerly touching a clump of moss. It gave off a noxious smell.  
"Shut up," Yanta snapped. "Keep moving. Valar!" she muttered to herself. "It looks like the whole place up and died!"  
"I think we're supposed to be in Arthedain."  
"Doesn't matter. Aica's got that covered. Besides, we're getting information ourselves."  
Metima frowned. "I don't think this is the kind of information Morion wants."  
"Screw Morion. Anyway, we're going to follow that fancy procession. When I'm done."  
"What are we looking for anyway?"  
"I'll know it when I…ah, there it is." Yanta pointed toward a roughly-hewn entrance in the mountain.   
"Are those skulls?" Metima asked as they approached.  
"Don't be an idiot." Yeah, they're skulls. Great. Just great. Why are we putting skulls up as decorations all of a sudden?  
"There's something strange about this place," Metima said, looking around nervously.  
"You're a ringbearer, dammit! Act like it!"  
"Don't go in there," Metima said as Yanta approached the door.  
"It's the entrance to my people's home!" Yanta snapped. "Of course I'm going to go in! Want to see how they're doing."  
"I don't think they're doing very good, judging by the looks of the place."  
No, they're probably all dead, Yanta thought. But I want to make sure.   
Yanta took a step into the passage. It was colder here, and it was a cold that she felt in her bones. Yes, there was something wrong here. Something very wrong indeed.  
A skeletal face appeared a few inches away from her. It was transparent, slightly green, and the eyes were filled with anguish.  
"Agh! Ghosts!" Yanta screamed and spun around, sprinting down the path.  
"Ghosts?" Metima gasped. She looked around frantically but didn't see anything. Still, she didn't want to be left alone in this cursed place. She followed her friend.  
"Ghosts! My people! Ghosts!" Yanta muttered as she paced outside the mountain.  
"I didn't expect that," Metima said. "Although that mountain does have an evil feel to it."  
"Harrowdale!" Yanta groaned. "Cursed! Oh, this is terrible! How did it happen?"  
"Are we going to follow that procession?"  
"It must've been those damn Numenoreans! Of course it was them! They're behind everything!"  
"We've got an excellent opportunity with that procession."  
"They built logging camps! They stole my people's land! Not that we liked to live outside the mountain, but still! And those bastards had the nerve – the damn nerve! – to curse them!"  
"They're passing by right now."  
"What?" Yanta asked, glancing up.  
"The procession." Metima pointed toward a line of horses. There were soldiers in shining armor, and ladies in beautiful silk dresses.  
"The procession," Yanta muttered. She grinned. "Yes, we're following that. Aica mumbled something about the princess what's-her-face getting married. That's probably her."  
Metima frowned as they both mounted their horses. "How does Aica know all this?"  
Yanta shrugged. "No idea. I suppose she's got a bunch of spies all over the place. Doesn't matter though, does it? Her information's always good."  
"You don't suppose she could be spying on us right now?"  
"What's the point?" Yanta asked. "There isn't one."   
"Are we just going to spy on the princess?"  
Yanta considered this. It was a big procession, which was a problem. If it had been smaller she'd have thought an 'orc raid' might've been in order. But it would be difficult for the two of them to slaughter an entire party like this.   
"Yeah, we're just going to spy," she said.  
"Good," Metima said.  
"Why good?"  
"What?"  
"Why's it good that we're just spying?"  
"Oh…I don't know. We've got a war on with Arthedain's and Gondor's kings. I don't see it extending to their princesses."  
Yanta snorted. "Got a soft spot for the little bride on her wedding march? I bet she isn't so thrilled about it. Arranged marriage and all. She might even thank us if we were to cause some trouble."  
"No," Metima said. "I don't think she would."


	49. The Marriage

"Aren't you going to be a beautiful bride!"  
Firiel forced a smile as the lady-in-waiting fussed over her. She couldn't remember the woman's name for the life of her.  
"I hear Arvedui's very handsome," the woman continued. She was pretty, prettier than Firiel. The princess wished the lady-in-waiting could marry Arvedui.  
"It's an honor to marry so high," Firiel said. She had arrived in Fornost only last night and already the wedding preparations were being made. The marriage was going to be as soon as possible. Rumor was Araphant wanted it tonight.   
"Oh, but you're a princess," the woman clucked. "Of course you're going to marry high. There, do you like your hair?"  
Firiel checked a mirror. "It's very nice," she said. It was. Far too nice for the rest of her. "Father was expecting to marry me to a noble. He's got enough sons and he doesn't need a daughter."  
"Oh, but you're beautiful," the woman said.   
And now she's lying, Firiel thought. Just to suck up to me. She glanced out the window down into the courtyard. Servants were bustling around like ants, but there were two who were watching Firiel's window while trying to appear like they weren't. They weren't terribly good at it. Actually, Firiel remembered seeing them before, on the journey. She didn't know – or particularly care – what they were up to, but it was curious. She made a note of it.  
"You will make the young prince such a beautiful wife!" the woman exclaimed as she looked at Firiel.  
"You're far prettier than I," Firiel said. "Your husband is lucky to have you."  
"What? Oh, I'm not married."  
"But your ring…"  
The woman glanced at an amethyst ring on her finger. "Oh, that. It's nothing." Her eyes went to the courtyard, to the two figures, Firiel swore.  
There was a knock on the door and King Araphant walked in. Rumor went that he had been superstitious and rather gullible in his early years, but by the time he was made king he had turned to steel in mind and mood.  
"The marriage will take place in an hour," he said. "Make sure you are ready."  
An hour! Only an hour!   
"Very well," Firiel said. "I will be ready."  
"Good." Araphant left.  
"A man of few words," the woman said. "Do you like that hairstyle?"  
Firiel shrugged.  
"Let's try another one."  
*  
"I hate this weather."  
Earnil nodded politely.  
"I despise this peasant who thinks he's king! Oh, so the blood of Isildur runs in his veins! Along with the blood of some scullery maids and plenty of heathen wildmen as well, no doubt!"  
Earnil continued to nod.  
"Filthy castle. Horrible draft. Kept me up all night."  
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."  
Pelendur sniffed. "Indeed. Well, at least we're rid of that silly girl. Do you know the scandal it caused when she went riding? She'll be among her own wild kind now. Although I can't wish a marriage to one of These kinds on anyone. Imagine! Children! She'll probably die from the trauma!"  
The steward of Gondor was no easy traveling companion and Earnil had made a point of avoiding him whenever possible. Regrettably, whoever had organized the marriage had placed them next to each other. So now Earnil had to sit, teeth gritted, counting the seconds under his breath, while this buffoon complained.  
"I'm quite glad Ondoher decided you should lead this procession," Pelendur continued. "The blood of true kings is in you, isn't it? Telumehtar, wasn't it?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"A good king. Very valiant soldier. Captured Umbar, didn't he?"  
"Yes, sir."  
Pelendur nodded. "A good king," he repeated. "Ah, and here comes the bride. Only ten minutes late!"  
"She looks beautiful," Earnil said as Firiel walked into the courtyard, dressed in a glorious red-orange dress.  
"It doesn't go well with her complexion," Pelendur said. "It makes her look ill. What idiot picked that? I'll have them fired."  
Arvedui was already waiting at the altar for his wife. He kept shifting from foot to foot and looked extremely nervous. He was a handsome young man with dark hair and eyes, and a much darker complexion than normal for the Dunedain. This had led to some speculation on Pelendur's part.  
"His mother," the steward said, shaking his head. "Was she Dunedain?"  
"I believe so, sir," Earnil whispered as Araphant said some words about unity.  
"She must've had an affair with one of the wildmen. Disgusting creatures. If he came to Gondor, that boy would be stoned to death."  
He probably would be, considering Gondor's current xenophobia. "Yes, sir."  
"Vile. I cannot imagine why I agreed to this alliance," Pelendur said. His face soured even more. "But the king made it. With Prince Ondoher's own daughter." He shook his head. "Poor thing. I pity her more all the time. Although she does look ill. She better not faint."  
Arvedui and Firiel joined hands. Earnil noticed both hands were shaking. Arvedui was smiling so tightly his teeth were probably cracking, and Firiel looked just plain miserable.  
"Unity between our realms," Araphant said later at the reception.  
"Yes, indeed," Pelendur said. He was always charming among guests. "May I, on behalf of Gondor, express my joy at this union?"  
Araphant smiled. "Of course. This seals the bond between our great kingdoms. May they prosper forever. And if one falls, may the other not be far behind."  
Pelendur's face grew grim. "Wildmen prophecies," he muttered, but he still drank to the oath.  
If one falls… Earnil thought. His eyes strayed to Arvedui. Last king. Last king of what? Last king of Arthedain, first king of Arnor in a thousand years? Or last king of Arthedain, last heir of Isildur?  
A chilling thought occurred to him. Last king of Arthedain, first king of Arnor and Gondor? No. That could never happen. Pelendur wouldn't let it.  
*  
"They make such a beautiful couple!" Ancalime exclaimed as Yanta and Metima watched.  
"Who invited her?" Yanta grumbled.  
"I think she just showed up," Metima said.  
"I suppose we'll have to take her back when we return to Carn Dum."  
"I suppose."  
Yanta heaved a sigh. "Nothing's turning out right on this damn trip," she muttered. "My people are ghosts, my homeland's cursed, Ancalime's here, and Gondor and Arthedain are united by marriage."  
"You wouldn't say that if you heard what the steward was saying," Metima said, nodding in Pelendur's direction.  
"What was he saying?"  
"Expressing his utter and complete disgust in barbarian Arthedain and how much he hated it and everyone in it."  
"Oh. That's good. Is he the current steward?"  
"Yes, and he's reasonably young so he'll probably stay steward for a considerable amount of time."  
Yanta grinned. "How considerable is considerable?"  
"Considerable."  
"Good. We'll have to move fast though. For us."  
Metima matched the grin. "Yes," she said. "For us."


	50. Defeat and Victory

"A quiet day on the southern front, eh?" a soldier remarked as he looked out over the endless sand dunes.  
"Yeah. Nothing's moving," his friend said. "I haven't seen anything move in days. Just a trader every now and then. Not very often."  
"What's that there?" The soldier nodded in the direction of a cloud of sand.  
"Oh, damn. It's another damn sandstorm. Been having a lot of those lately." The other soldier sighed. "Better go inside. Don't want to get caught in one of those."  
"Hang on," his friend muttered. "Look! It's not a storm!"  
"What is it?"  
"It looks like…it looks like…" The soldier's jaw fell open and he stared in horror.  
"What are those?" his friend muttered as gray behemoths as tall as buildings stalked toward them, horses and men darting around their legs.  
*  
Harwan's great-grandson – also named Harwan – let loose a wild warcry as he and his people swept through the small garrison, slaughtering the soldiers.  
"No more will you steal our land!" he screamed. "No more will you take our women! No more!"  
The huge mumakil rumbled slowly but surely across the land, trampling friend and foe alike. These enormous engines of destruction would ensure victory for the Haradrim people. Victory they had been too long denied.  
"To the north!" Harwan shouted over the din of the moving army. "To Southern Ithilien!"   
There was a roar of support. Invading Gondor! They would destroy Ithilien as easily as they had destroyed the garrison! Easier, perhaps, for the Easterlings would be attacking from the north. And they would be aided by Harwan's mysterious benefactor. No matter how many years passed, it seemed, this strange woman never seemed to age. Curious, but Harwan wasn't about to question the woman who had given him his chance for vengeance. The Haradrim had been kept as slaves in Umbar and Southern Gondor. They had been driven from their land and killed. They were about to take a stand.  
More garrisons fell, more soldiers were killed, and then the beautiful trees of Ithilien came into sight. Harwan felt a pang in his heart at seeing such fairness that was to be destroyed.   
The mumakil are not discriminating in whom they kill or what they crush, he reminded himself. They are necessary, so you can't very well go choosing what they destroy and what they don't.  
The army had to narrow to enter the Poros Road and Harwan doubled the watches. There was no telling who knew they were here and might try to ambush them. It was doubtful it would work with an army over forty thousand strong, but they might try.  
It was on the third day that they found someone. Or rather, someone found them.  
A man of Gondor stood in the road. He was dressed in armor and he had a sheathed sword at his side. He didn't move, not even when an arrow whizzed right over his head. Harwan was impressed.  
"Sir, move aside!" he ordered, spurring his horse toward the man.  
"You have invaded my land and I cannot stand aside," he said, staring Harwan straight in the eye. There was power and authority in the man's gaze and Harwan wondered who he was. The captain of one of the destroyed garrisons probably.  
"I fear I will have to kill you then," Harwan said. "I don't like destroying such courage, but in the name of justice for my people, I will."  
"And I don't like destroying such noble sentiments," the man said. "But for the sake of my people, I will." He raised a hand.  
Arrows shot from the trees like rain, peppering the Haradrim with steel-tipped sticks. The mumakil roared and went wild, trampling the Haradrim in a frenzy of pain and fear that their handlers couldn't control.  
Harwan stared in anguish as his friends and countrymen were slaughtered. A single thought ran through his mind continuously, never-ending. Where is Khamul? Where is she? She said we would win…  
"Forgive me, brave warrior," the man in the road said. He drew his sword. "I do not think your proud spirit would like captivity."  
Harwan did nothing to prevent the fall of the sword.  
*  
"The Wainriders have returned, have they?" Ondoher commented, glancing around the land. "I don't see them."  
"Father, they'll be in the hills somewhere," his son, Artamir, said.   
"We'll catch them unawares," Faramir, the younger son, said with a grin. "We'll slaughter the beasts."  
Ondoher frowned. "I don't like fighting so close to That." He nodded at the Black Gate, only a mile or so away. "It's bad luck."  
Artamir snorted. "Bad luck. Father, we are trained warriors. The Easterlings are nothing."  
"Rumor has it that the Black Easterling leads them. Narmacil fell to the Black Easterling."  
"Rumor is all it is. Some renegade Haradrim, no doubt."  
"The Haradrim are in on this," Faramir spat. "They think they can take Gondor together, and likely they'd squabble over the land if they won. But they won't. For we are of the blood of Numenor!"  
Ondoher smiled. His sons were, of course, right. They were of Numenorean descent and these people were simply nothing.   
"Ah, here they come," Artamir said, fitting an arrow to his bow.   
"Good. I'm ready for a fight." Faramir drew his sword.  
"Men! The enemy approaches!" Ondoher shouted, drawing his own sword.  
"From all sides," a soldier muttered.  
Ondoher's heart skipped a beat and he looked around in horror as Wainriders poured out of the land. The army of Gondor was surrounded on all sides by screaming barbarians. The charge was led by a black horse.  
"The Black Easterling," Faramir said as the horse approached.  
It is Narmacil's slayer, Ondoher thought. I know it.   
His vision narrowed, and the king could only watch in helpless horror as the Easterling advanced upon him. No, it wasn't an Easterling. It was a Haradrim woman, proud and cold. And beautiful. Death, he thought. Black, cold, beautiful.  
Artamir and Faramir launched themselves at the woman, but she was Death. She could not be stopped. It was as if a Maia had descended to walk the battlefield. Nothing could stand against her. She fought like a wild animal, but with the skill of a master. Her white teeth were bared as she fought. Ondoher felt twin pangs of pain as his sons toppled off their horses.  
"I don't believe you have an heir now," Death said, raising her bloody sword.   
I don't, Ondoher thought. For some reason this didn't seem to concern him. Nothing concerned him anymore.   
The sword fell, and there was nothing more for Ondoher to be concerned about.


	51. The Battle of the Camp

"They're drinking again!"  
"This is what we do to celebrate," Ulfad said, trying to explain to the cursed Haradrim the proper ways of celebrating a victory. "Drink is a celebration."  
"You're going to get drunk again and what's-his-name's going to find us and kill everyone!"  
Ulfad sighed. The Haradrim was crazy as well as cursed. Although it wasn't such a bad curse. To live forever and never age…Ulfad wanted a curse like that.   
"We'll be ready before Earnil comes," he promised.  
"You better be," the Haradrim warned.  
"We will be. We always are. This is just our way of giving thanks to the dead for giving their lives for our glorious victory. You do want to thank the dead, don't you?" Ulfad raised an eyebrow, daring her to defy him.  
"Fine, fine," the Haradrim snapped. "Just make sure they sober up quick in the morning."  
"Will do," Ulfad said with a quick nod.  
Earnil won't be coming, the Easterling thought as he walked back to his drunken, partying troops. He'll have his hands full with the normal Haradrim.   
*  
Khamul's frown of disgust and irritation degenerated into a scowl of fury as the evening turned into night, and then the sun rose the next day. And still the bastards were drunk. They were bloated with food and drink, so tired they could hardly move. It was exactly like Dagorlad. Earnil was going to slaughter them.  
But does it matter? Khamul thought as she watched the Easterlings. Gondor's in a panic and Morion's preparing his masterstroke. There's no way Gondor could send aid to Arthedain in time now.   
If Earnil comes, it means the Haradrim failed. Have I condemned my people to death? They signed up for it though. Willingly. They flocked in droves to our banner. And Harwan… Will he have survived? No, of course not. If the Haradrim go down, so will he.   
What to do? Khamul wondered as she watched the sun rise. I could stay here and maybe take down Earnil, but what good would that do? I've already killed the king and his heirs. Anarion's line has ended.  
Khamul felt a thrill of pride at this, but it wasn't what she'd imagined feeling when one of Elendil's lines had ended. She felt like she'd missed something. Well, yes, there was Firiel to the north, but that was all. The king and his sons were dead. Who would lead them now?  
Khamul's heart suddenly froze. Arvedui. Araphant's son could claim the throne of Gondor! No! He would reunite the kingdoms! All their hard work, gone!   
"No," Khamul whispered in horror. Her mind raced. How to stop this…how to keep this from happening.   
Earnil's descended from one of the kings, isn't he? Ah, yes, he is. If he were to win a great battle against the Wainriders then the people would love him. They'd rather have him on the throne than Arvedui. They'd never let the king of Arthedain rule them.  
A smile slowly spread across Khamul's face. She walked back to the camp where Ulfad was trying in vain to rouse his men.  
"Let them celebrate," she said. "Drink yourselves to death for all I care."  
Ulfad smiled. The Haradrim had come to her senses at last. "Yes, of course," he said. "Continue the feast!" he exclaimed. There was a ragged cheer at these words.  
"Unfortunately, I need to find out what's happened to the Haradrim," Khamul said. They should've been here by now.  
"Of course, of course," Ulfad said, taking a drink from a sack of wine. "You do that. I'll keep order here."  
"Good to hear it." Khamul whistled to her horse, jumped on its back, and took off north. No one noticed that she was heading away from both the Easterlings as well as the Haradrim.  
It was many months later, when Khamul was passing through Bree, that she finally learned what had become of her army.  
"Earnil killed the Haradrim," one grizzled old man whispered to a friend in a local tavern. "Slaughtered 'em all. Then he caught the Easterlings. They were all drunk and sleeping. Killed 'em. Every last one of them. Won't be troubling the Southern Kingdom again."  
"But the king's dead," his friend hissed. "And so's his sons. What happens now?"  
The old man shrugged. "Suppose Earnil might be king. Also suppose our king'll make a bid for the throne. On account of his wife."  
Khamul smiled. The people would choose Earnil. They would never accept Arvedui for king now that their general had avenged them. Khamul might've lost the battles, but she had succeeded on the point that mattered. Arnor and Gondor would never be reunited, and the naming of Earnil as king would only drive a wedge between the two kingdoms.


	52. Claim Denied

"It is intolerable! It is beyond belief that that disgusting heathen creature should ask for the crown!" Pelendur could hardly believe what he was reading! That Arvedui should claim the crown of Gondor!   
"Shocking," Ceure said. She was a kind, reasonably intelligent woman who lived in the wealthy section of Minas Anor. Pelendur had met her several years ago and found her an agreeable companion. The two got along very well. Particularly since she agreed with almost everything he said.  
"I will, of course, refuse him," Pelendur said. "Do you have some paper and ink?"  
"You're going to write it right now?" Ceure asked in surprise.  
"But of course. The message must be delivered at once. Those filth in the north must not hear of my second decision first."  
"And what is that?"  
Pelendur smiled. "I'm going to name that general Earnil as king. He's got some good blood in him, and he's a soldier. He'll be easy to manipulate."  
"Oh! You're so clever!"  
Pelendur's smile grew wider. "I am, aren't I?" he said. He signed the letter with a flourish of his pen. "I fear that I must take leave of your company. I've got to tell Earnil that he's going to be king."  
"He'll be quite surprised," Ceure said.  
"Not quite so, I think. The people have fairly been screaming for it. And I, after all, am but a humble servant of the people."  
Ceure smiled. "I'll take the letter, if you want."  
"Yes, deliver it to some messenger, if you wouldn't mind," Pelendur said, handing her the letter. He left moments later.  
This was it. Goodbye Gondor. For good, this time.  
Ceure quickly packed her bags and hurried out the door. She found a messenger, gave him the letter, and then took her horse out of the stables near her house and saddled it.   
"Time to go," she muttered, casting one last look back at her villa. She would never be returning here. She felt a pang of sadness. I've spent so many happy years here, she thought. But duty calls.  
*  
"Excellent job with the Wainriders," Morion said. "And the Haradrim as well. Shame how they all got killed."  
Subtle criticism, Khamul thought. "Gondor's going to spend a very long time rebuilding from the invasion. Long enough that we'll be able to destroy Arthedain without them doing anything about it."  
Morion nodded. "I suppose so," he said. He didn't look like he entirely believed her. "There are still the elves to worry about though."  
Khamul snorted. "Forget the elves," she said. "I've seen the army Vorea's rallied. If they get in the way, the elves will be crushed."  
Morion nodded again, but he still had that doubtful look on his face. He was looking a little better than when Khamul had left. Apparently Ringe had done some good for his health. But he was still unnaturally pale and there was the suggestion of dark circles under his eyes.  
"Arvedui's going to be the last king of Arthedain," Khamul said. "We'll make sure of that."  
"So says a prophecy," Morion said. "And speaking of superstitions, I'd appreciate it if you could have a word with Yanta. She's convinced the people of Harrowdale have turned into ghosts and are haunting their mountain."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. "Fine," she muttered and turned to leave.  
"Oh, Khamul?"  
"What?"   
"I just wondered…" Morion looked at her very hard for a moment. "Never mind."  
"What?"   
"Nothing."  
"What do you mean, nothing?" Khamul snapped.  
"Just that, nothing."  
Khamul cursed under her breath and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.  
I wonder what he was talking about, she thought. Probably was about to ask me to do something else and forgot. Yes. That would be just like him.  
*  
"How could they be so stupid?"  
"It's all right," Firiel said, stroking her husband's hair.  
"I could reunite the kingdoms! Our child would have the blood of both Anarion and Isildur in his, or her, veins! They would rule as High King of Arnor and Gondor! How could they be so blind!"  
"Pelendur hates Arthedain," Firiel explained. "He would never accept a man from Arthedain as king."  
"How can he be so blind?" Arvedui whispered.  
"He's a fool. They all are. But it doesn't matter. Arthedain will continue as it's always done."  
"No, it won't. I'm the Last King. Malbeth –"  
"Stop talking about that stupid prophecy! It doesn't mean anything! There are all sorts of prophecies that never amounted to anything!"  
"Name one."  
"What about that other one he gave? The one about the Paths of the Dead and all that nonsense? That one hasn't come true."  
"Yet," Arvedui muttered.  
"He was an old fraud," Firiel said. "He just said what he thought people would react to. Our son will be king of Arthedain, just like you."  
Arvedui smiled weakly. Araphant had died last week, and the letter from Gondor had arrived then as well. The same day actually. It was a good thing it came an hour after Araphant's death. The shock would've killed him.  
"He could've been king of Gondor as well."  
Firiel glared at him. "You can't change the steward's mind. And anyway, Earnil's a good man. He'll help you if we need it. So stop moping around and do something!"  
"Like what?"  
"Like gathering allies! Get the elves back on your side. You've been neglecting them lately with all your talk of High Kingship! If we're going to beat Angmar we need lots of friends!"  
"The elves are busy," Arvedui said. "Cirdan is making ships for the elves to sail across the sea, Galadriel has all but sealed herself off from the outside world, and Elrond is fighting off raids from Angmar."  
"We have a common enemy then."  
Arvedui shook his head. "He won't be able to break through their lines unless they move against us. And if they move against us, we're dead."  
"Maybe we can hold them off."  
Arvedui snorted. "We can't. We're doomed. Angmar holds all the cards. We live at their mercy."  
"They have none."  
"So we'll be dead soon."  
"Lord king?" A messenger walked into the room. "A message from King Earnil II of Gondor."  
"What does he want?" Arvedui muttered, snatching the letter and tearing it open.  
"Perhaps he wants to apologize for Pelendur," Firiel said.  
"Well, well, well. Apparently he does. And listen to this: 'I do not forget the royalty of Arnor, nor deny our kinship, nor wish that the realms of Elendil be estranged. I will send to your aid when you have need, so far as I am able.'"  
Firiel smiled. "I told you he was a good man," she said. "And now we have our allies!"  
"They can't possibly come soon enough," Arvedui said. "Even if I sent for them now, they couldn't get here before Angmar attacks. Besides, Earnil wouldn't be able to come. He's got Gondor to rebuild."  
"Earnil wouldn't be able to come," Firiel said. "But his son could. Earnur is a great warrior. He's rebuffed raids by Easterlings and orcs. He could save Arthedain."  
"Yes," Arvedui said bitterly. "Save Arthedain so we could be ruled by Gondor. I can see his ploy now! High King of Arnor and Gondor! Not Isildur's – the second High King – heir, but Earnil!"  
"No!" Firiel shouted. "He wants to be friends! He doesn't want the two kingdoms to be enemies forever! You stupid man! Can't you see that?"  
Arvedui stared at her in shock. Never had Firiel shouted at him like this before. "Yes," he said at last. "I understand it."  
"Good!"  
"My king!"  
Arvedui spun around as another messenger entered the room. "What is it?"  
"Orcs have been spotted crossing the border in great numbers, my king."  
Arvedui closed his eyes and sank into a chair. "So it begins," he whispered. "So it begins."


	53. The Fall of Arthedain

Earnil closed his eyes. His head slowly fell into his hands. "Say it again," he said quietly. So quietly no one but his son heard. Earnur made a curt gesture to the messenger.  
"King Earnil of Gondor," the messenger read, his voice trembling slightly. The king looked so devastated. "I thank you for your congratulations on my ascension to kingship of Arthedain, and also for your promise of aid. I fear that I must ask you for it now. The last stroke of Angmar has begun on my land. The Witch-King has unleashed his forces upon Arthedain. I fear that without aid we will not last a year. Not even Fornost can stand against the powers that now roam the wilds of the north. Therefore I beg of you, send aid. For if you do not or you delay, then there will be no more kingdom in the north."  
"What shall we do, Father?" Earnur asked. He was itching for a battle. To test his sword against the fabled Witch-King…ah…he could hardly wait.  
"I cannot go," Earnil whispered. "Gondor has suffered such heavy losses in the recent war against the Wainriders. I cannot abandon my people."  
"Then let me go," Earnur said. "I will lead Gondor to victory!"  
Earnil felt like he stood on the brink of a precipice. He could choose to abandon Arvedui to his – and Arnor's – death. Or he could send his only son into possible death. His only child.   
"Go," Earnil said at last. The decision did not lift the burden on his heart but merely increased it. "Take as many men as you need and use the fleet. I do not trust the roads."  
Earnur grinned. "Yes, Father. Fear not, Arthedain will not fall."  
It's not Arthedain I'm worried about, Earnil thought. It's you.  
*  
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Khamul asked with a grin.  
"I have stood upon this hill too many times to think it beautiful," Vorea replied. "But this time there are no men in the bushes. There are no elves with swords and arrows. There is no one."  
"No one except a bunch of guards on the city walls," Khamul said. "I like it when I can see my enemies."  
Vorea smiled. She waited a moment before raising her spear to signal the attack. She was savoring the moment. Savoring the destruction of Fornost.  
The army of orcs, goblins, trolls and men surged down the hill and threw themselves against the gates of Fornost. They broke within minutes, and although hundreds of invaders died in a hail of arrows, there were thousands to replace them.  
"We've won," Khamul said in astonishment as the orcs swarmed the city, slaughtering everything that moved and burning whatever didn't. "Who knew it would be this easy?"  
"It is only easy because we have striven for a thousand years to weaken Arthedain," Vorea said. "It is only easy because we have a force over a hundred thousand strong. Where are you going?" she asked as Khamul urged her horse through the hordes.  
"To find Arvedui. He's the last king, and I'm going to cut off his crown."  
Vorea sighed. Spotting a valiant defender trying to keep the orcs away from his home, Vorea hefted her spear and let it fly. Better to be slain by a fellow Man than an orc, she thought as the man was skewered.  
*  
"They're coming!" Arvedui shouted. He raced through his castle, looking for Firiel and his son. "Firiel! Get Aranarth! Get out of here!"  
"Where are you going?" Firiel asked as she ran into the room, cradling the infant in her arms. He was so swaddled in blankets Arvedui could hardly spot him amongst the wrappings.  
"Get out of here. I'm going to try to make it to Lindon."  
"You can't. The western road is blocked. Trolls've barricaded it."  
Arvedui cursed. His heart was pounding in his chest. "Then I'll go north. You take the north road as well, but be careful to stay off the road itself."  
Firiel gave him a disapproving look. "I can take care of myself." She brushed aside her cloak to give him a view of the sword that hung at her waist.  
Arvedui smiled. "My beautiful wife," he said. He kissed her, and then Aranarth, who made a gurgling noise.  
"Go!" Firiel shouted. "Go while there's still time!"  
"Same to you," Arvedui said as he ran out of the room. He never saw Firiel or his son again.   
Down the stairs he sprinted, and out the door. The orcs were everywhere. So were the goblins and wildmen. They moved through the streets like a tide. And beneath them the streets ran red with the blood of the Dunedain.  
He found a few loyal guardsmen and together they fought their way out of Fornost. The bulwark against the forces of Angmar had turned into a deathtrap.  
He made it to the northern road with only three men left. Somehow they had made it out. Somehow. He could only pray that Firiel had as well.  
The land was crawling with orcs, but through some miracle they were never found. Perhaps Varda was smiling down on them from above. If so, she had a funny way of showing her favors.  
"My king," one of his men said a week later. "These mountains we are near, there is an abandoned dwarf mine in one of them."  
Arvedui looked up with hope. A place to stay, to recuperate from their injuries. Safety. "Lead the way," he said.  
"I doubt there's food in it though, my king."  
Arvedui shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We'll find something. Besides, food isn't our biggest concern right now."


	54. Five Years

Earnur staggered off the ship, careful not to show how much the sea voyage had sickened him. Cursed storm! It had delayed them considerably, and he wasn't sure in what state they would find Arthedain.  
"Ah, Prince Earnur."  
Earnur glanced up. It was some elf. There were a lot of elves around now that he took the time to notice. They were armed as well. Earnur's hand went to his sword.  
"No, Prince, we are your allies," the elf said. He had long golden hair tied at the nape of his neck. "I am Glorfindel, from Imladris. I have brought many kinsmen to help you rid the land of the scourge that is the Witch-King."  
"Good," Earnur said. "Has something happened?" he asked, looking around. "Where is Arvedui? Is Fornost under siege?"  
Sadness filled Glorfindel's face and Earnur's worst fears were confirmed. "Fornost has fallen. I do not know if Arvedui still lives. He may be dead."  
Earnur sighed. Ah well, the heathen king had gotten what he deserved for daring to claim the throne of Gondor.  
"The remains of Fornost are under the control of the Witch-King. I see that you have brought cavalry from Gondor, and if you will permit me, I have a plan to ensure defeat for Angmar."  
Earnur was reluctant to let anyone do his planning for him, but it was an elf, and elves were wise. Or they were supposed to be, anyway.  
"All right," he said. "Where are you all from anyway?" he asked.  
"Most of us are from Imladris, but Cirdan has sent a large force from Lindon. And this is Legolas, from Mirkwood." He gestured to a black-haired elf who nodded. He had an unpleasant smirk. "He actually suggested this plan." Glorfindel sounded both surprised and slightly suspicious.  
"Well, let me hear it," Earnur said. "I'll see if it's any good."  
Glorfindel and Legolas exchanged glances. Suspicion passed between them, but it was quickly surpassed by their mutual eye-rolling of Earnur.  
*  
"So, we won," Khamul said.  
"And you didn't find Arvedui," Yanta said.  
"I'll find him one of these days," Khamul said as she walked through the ruins of Fornost. "Where's Aica?"  
"I think she went to see if there was anything shiny left in the castle."  
Khamul snorted. The castle had been burned until there was nothing but the foundations left. "Trust her, the little scavenger."  
Aica was in the ruins, but she wasn't looking for valuables. She was sitting with her back to a pillar, the palantir on her lap. She was frowning.  
"Can you find Arvedui for me?" Khamul asked.   
Aica jumped, but then her scowl deepened. "I'm looking," she snapped. "You know what he did?"  
"No. What?"  
"He took the Amon Sul and Annuminas palantiri with him!"  
"Shocking. Can he use them to thwart you?"  
"No. I don't think he knows how to use them. Try to get them back when you kill him. They're valuable."  
Khamul rolled her eyes. She missed the stupid, blindly violent Aica. This new one annoyed her. "Where is Arvedui?" she hissed.  
"He is in a dwarf mine," Aica replied. "No, wait, he's not. He's leaving a dwarf mine."  
"Why's he leaving it?"  
"Because he looks like a skeleton. He's all alone. I think everyone who went with him died."  
"Too bad for him. Where's he going?"  
"I don't know!"  
Khamul hissed in exasperation. "What direction is he heading?"  
"North."  
Khamul reviewed her geography. "Ice Bay of Forochel, probably," she said. "Cirdan might send a ship for him."  
"I suppose." Aica shrugged.  
"Anything else?"  
"No, not really," Aica said.   
"Really? I thought Earnil would send someone."  
Aica shook her head. "I'm not seeing anyone."  
"Huh. Gondor must be in worse shape than I thought," Khamul said.  
"I guess so."  
"Nothing else then?"  
"No…oh, wait. Yes."  
"What is it?" Khamul asked.  
"There's some guy standing outside the gates. The northern gates. He looks familiar but I can't place him," Aica reported.  
Khamul sighed. "I'll go see what he wants. Keep an eye out for Earnil."  
"Will do," Aica said with a smile. The smile widened as Khamul left. Aica could hardly suppress laughter, and a single giggle escaped her. She was going to have her revenge on Morion. They all relied so strongly on her for information that they hardly used spies anymore. Earnur's army would catch them all unawares, and Aica would be safe and sound a distance away, watching the slaughter with glee.  
*  
"Hey! You! Who do you think you are?" Khamul shouted as she approached the strange man. He stood alone some distance from the gates. He looked like he was contemplating them.  
The man glanced at Khamul and slowly removed his hood. Long black hair tumbled over his shoulders. Piercing black eyes stared at Khamul.  
"Sauron," Khamul whispered.  
"Come to see the destruction of Fornost. I must admit, it's quite impressive." Sauron smiled. "Have the palantiri been recovered?" he asked.  
"The what?" Khamul asked. Play it dumb, she thought.  
"Seeing stones. Was anything recovered from the palace?"  
"No. It's a heap of ash."  
Sauron frowned. "They are with Arvedui then. Go after him."  
"I'll go tell Morion."  
"No. Go now."  
"But Morion –"  
Sauron waved a hand impatiently. "Go after the Last King. Morion does not matter and neither does the army. They have achieved their goal."  
"You're going to kill him?" Khamul gasped. Were they expandable now that Arthedain had fallen?  
Sauron chuckled. "No, of course not. Gondor still stands. However, I shall be watching the battle with considerable enjoyment and interest. I will have to see what vantage point Aica has. I'm sure it's the best one."  
"Vantage point? Aica? What…? She betrayed us!" Khamul exclaimed as enlightenment dawned. "Earnil's sent an army! He's coming!"  
"Yes," Sauron said. "How good of him to follow my plan. I must say, it's as if our minds are linked."  
"You want him to destroy the army?"  
"Yes."  
"You want Angmar to fall?"  
"Oh yes. It has served its purpose."  
"What's your plan?"  
"When you return from your trip, I'm sure you'll understand."  
"I don't think I will," Khamul said.   
"Oh, I'm sure you will. For one thing, you'll either have to find a ship, or endure a very long ride."  
I'm going south, Khamul thought. Why? Are we returning to Mordor? We are, aren't we? I knew it.  
"Go," Sauron ordered.   
"Let me get my horse," Khamul snapped. "Or do you want me to run after the king?"  
Sauron whistled and Khamul's horse trotted up. "There's your horse," the Dark Lord said. "Find Arvedui and kill him. And if you could find his wife and child, I would be much obliged if you could end Isildur's line. And Anarion's as well."  
"Earnur and Earnil are descendants of Anarion," Khamul reminded him.  
"I know," Sauron said with a smile. "As reward for his excellent work – he might as well be a ringbearer – I'll leave Earnil in peace. His son, however… Oh, Khamul, that is going to be such fun."  
Poor Earnur, Khamul thought.  
"Make sure you move quickly," Sauron said. "You have five years."  
"It's going to take me a lot less time than that," Khamul snapped. She frowned. "Why five years?"  
"In five years it will be 1980. Third Age, of course."  
"So?"  
"Oh, but that date means everything."  
"Does it?"  
"Of course it does. It's when I won't be alone anymore."  
Sauron didn't care to elaborate any further and simply watched the ruins of Fornost with a disturbing smile on his lips.  
I won't be alone anymore, Khamul thought as she spurred her horse north along the road. What does that mean? Is Morgoth coming back? What's happening?  
Well, there was one thing for certain. Whatever was happening in five years, Sauron wanted her involved in it. Khamul wasn't entirely sure whether that was good or bad.


	55. The Battle of Fornost

Earnur's army met with the Witch-King's near the Hills of Evendim. Scouts had warned Morion of the army's approach, but it was far too late to make any serious plans. No one had seen either Aica or Khamul, and Morion wondered if they had – sensing defeat – slipped away.  
"There don't seem to be as many soldiers as there should be," Morion muttered.  
"They have something planned," Vorea said darkly. She was taking Khamul's disappearance very hard.   
"Gondor's cavalry is famous throughout Arda. Does Earnil need it for something?"  
"I do not know," Vorea said. Her frown was deepening with each passing second. The two armies were evenly matched but it seemed that with the strength of the ringbearers, Angmar would carry the day.  
"For Gondor!"   
Morion and Vorea whirled to face the battle cry. Out of the hills poured Gondor's cavalry, led by a young man in shining armor.  
"Earnur," Vorea said, watching as the prince carved his way through goblins.  
"An excellent ambush," Morion said. He glanced around. It seemed that he had lost half his force in less than a minute.   
"We have lost," Vorea said.  
"Oh yes, we definitely have," Morion said, laughing. There wasn't anything particularly funny, but it just seemed so silly. To have conquered Arnor only to be defeated by Gondor!  
Vorea frowned at him. "What shall we do?" she asked.  
"Retreat, I suppose. It doesn't really matter. The army's as good as dead. Get the ringbearers out of here."  
"And Aica and Khamul?"  
Morion shrugged. "I expect they'll fend for themselves."  
The battle was turning into a rout as the elves and Men crushed the force of all Angmar between the cavalry and infantry.  
Vorea was swept away in the tide of fleeing, running, desperate orcs and Men. In fact, it wasn't long until Morion found himself alone, surrounded by enemies.  
No point in sticking around, Morion thought. He spurred his horse through the armies, heading for the east. He meant to go to Dol Guldor, but he had a feeling he'd run into Sauron well before then.   
"Foul fiend!"   
Morion turned and saw the prince, Earnur, galloping toward him. The young man was practically foaming at the mouth. His eyes burned with rage and bloodlust.  
"Go away, you young fool," Morion snarled. "I don't want to spill any more Numenorean blood than I have already!"  
"You shall die, fiend!" Earnur screamed. "Die for the suffering you have caused the sons of Elendil!" He drew his sword and charged Morion, who made no move to avoid the attack.  
Earnur's horse suddenly reared and nearly threw the prince. Cursing, he kicked it, but it refused to move another inch toward Morion.  
~You should feel honored that I would exert my power on your behalf.~ the icy voice of Morgoth whispered. ~Be warned though. I will expect payment in return.~  
Morion shivered at the thought of that 'payment'. But whatever Morgoth did, it had enraged Earnur to the point of folly. He looked about ready to dismount and come after Morion on foot.  
"Earnur! Get back!" Another horse came charging toward Morion, and the Witch-King could hear Morgoth hiss in his mind.  
It was an elf with streaming golden hair. He seemed to emit a soft glow in the gloom, and his eyes blazed as one who had seen the light of Valinor.  
Morion felt an instant, unreasonable, and completely uncontrollable, terror. He had to be out of there. This elf would hurt him worse than Morgoth ever could. He needed to escape, had to flee.  
He spurred his horse to the east, and the horse burst into a gallop, as eager to be away as he was. But the elf's words carried and rung in Morion's ears for hours after. In years to come they still echoed through his head.  
"Do not pursue him! He will not return to these lands. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."  
Well, he got one part right, Morion thought. I'm sure not coming back here.  
*  
"Fascinating."  
"Oh yeah. Really nice. I was…um…just up here for…um…"  
Sauron smiled, enjoying Aica's discomfort. The seventh ringbearer was holding a large bag (full of pilfered goods, no doubt) and had been watching Earnur's slaughter of Angmar's forces with undisguised glee.  
"If I didn't know any better, I would've sworn that you were cheering for Earnur," Sauron said. "But of course, that isn't true."  
"No, no…not at all," Aica said. "Not at all."  
"Good."  
"Why are you here?" Aica asked, starting to relax a bit. The danger had passed.  
"I enjoy watching the culmination of centuries of hard work," Sauron said.  
"Oh, yeah. Arnor's destroyed now."  
"Yes, it is." Sauron smiled. "How nice."  
"Arvedui's still alive though."  
"Is he?"  
"I think," Aica said hastily. "I don't know for sure. They're hard to kill, Elendil's heirs are."  
"Yes, they are. It's very irritating. Fortunately, I've sent Khamul to end that trouble once and for all."  
"That's good. She'll take care of them quick."  
Sauron studied Aica as she watched the battle. There was the love of carnage and slaughter in her eyes, but also a feeling of vengeance. Ah yes, Sauron thought. Her brother deserted her, didn't he? Decided that it was better to be in Morion's bed than at Aica's side. Can't say I blame him.  
"Morion tells me you have an excellent spy network," Sauron said.  
Aica frowned at the ringbearer's name, but nodded. "I do," she said.  
"Good. Tell me when the gates of Moria open."  
"What?"  
"The gates of Moria. Tell me when they open."  
"Okay. Sure. I'll do that."  
"Excellent," Sauron said. He went back to watching the battle. Or, more specifically, he went back to watching Earnur.


	56. The Last King

The gaunt, haggard man stumbled over to the hut. He collapsed before he reached it. His clothing was torn, his hair was a tangled mess, and every spare ounce of flesh had been gouged from his body. He looked, in short, like one of the more unfortunate refugees who were pouring out of Arthedain.  
The Lossoth opened the hut's flap and looked down at the man. "Are you alive?" he asked.  
"Unhhh."  
The Lossoth nodded, grabbed the starving man and hauled him into the warm tent. There he proceeded to brew some tea and mix up some stew.  
"Feeling better?" he asked when the man had eaten.  
"Thank you," the man said. "Thank you so much. I haven't eaten for days."  
"It's dangerous to be out in the winter," the Lossoth said. "I suppose the Witch-King drove you from your home?"  
The man nodded. He was still shaking despite having furs and blankets piled on him.  
"Unfortunate. I hear Gondor's sent an army to drive him out."  
"Too late," the man muttered. "Too damn late."  
"There is a village of my people some few miles away. When you are feeling better, shall I guide you there?"  
The man shook his head. "This is the Ice Bay of Forochel?" he asked.  
"Yes."  
"Then I will stay here. My wife…my son… They are coming here."  
The Lossoth shrugged. The people from Arthedain usually had some valuables on them. This man carried a large bag as well as an interesting-looking ring. Perhaps he would offer one or both to the Lossoth for payment.  
Days passed and the man grew stronger. His name was Arvedui, a name which didn't mean much to the Lossoth. He kept up with the large news, but ignored such trivial matters as who was king at the moment. They changed so often, it was futile to try to learn the king's name, and if you finally did, there was a new one on the throne.  
No Nazgul, no orcs, no wildmen approached Forochel. It was a haunted, cursed land. No one liked it. Except for the Lossoth, who reveled in its cold and bitterness.  
"There is a ship on the horizon," the Lossoth reported one morning. "It's probably for you." He'd gathered that his guest was important, important enough to have a ship sent into the dangerous Ice Bay.  
"It's for me," Arvedui said. He looked at it and he smiled for the first time. It looked oddly demented and mad on his gaunt face. "Cirdan."  
The Lossoth pursed his lips in displeasure. "The Shipwright makes fine boats for elves of the south. But for men of the north? It will break like a twig in an avalanche."  
"I have to take it," Arvedui said. "I must. I will reclaim my throne in Arthedain. I will help Earnur win the battle. I will not let it be said that Arvedui stood by and did nothing while Fornost was retaken!"  
The Lossoth cast him a pitying glance. This guest had clearly gone mad. "That ship cannot hold against the ice."  
Arvedui shrugged. The brash, mad bravado vanished in an instant. In its place was a shell of a man. Someone who had seen the end of their world and unfortunately survived it. "What does it matter? There is nothing left. Arnor crumbled when it was divided into three kingdoms. Now with the fall of Arthedain it has been destroyed. It shall never rise again. The line of Isildur will perish."  
"Very well," the Lossoth said. "This woman you spoke of, Firiel. If she comes, what shall I do?"  
"Give her this," Arvedui said, taking his ring off his finger. Two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring the other, and one crowned with golden flowers. "It is an heirloom of my house. A gift from elves to men. Perhaps this ship is another."  
"Or it may be a curse."  
"Then I shall die," Arvedui said. "I am as Malbeth the Seer prophesied: the Last King of Arthedain."  
"And the man who shall summon the Dead of whom he also prophesied?" the Lossoth asked.  
"I am not he," Arvedui said. He walked toward the ship, which had docked near the shore, bag over his shoulder.  
The Lossoth stood alone, watching as the ship slowly drifted toward the entrance of the Bay, toward the great sea beyond. In the middle of the bay it struck an ice floe. The thin elven wood shattered against the mighty ice. The ship went down within minutes. There were no cries for help. No screams of sailors. It had been magic, the snow-man realized. A boat guided by magic. No one had been on it save Arvedui. And he was the only one who perished.  
There was nothing he could do. As the mast of the ship sunk beneath the ice, any hope of rescuing Arvedui vanished. The Lossoth could not have reached the middle of the Bay in time in his small kayak. He would have been dashed to pieces against the ice floes that had claimed Arvedui.   
The Lossoth bowed his head, mourning for a life gone. The ring suddenly felt cold and worthless in his hand. He nearly cast it into the sea. But then he thought better of it and put it in a small bone box in his hut.  
It was a month after Arvedui had drowned that the Lossoth got another visitor. It was a woman dressed in rags, carrying a baby in her arms. She staggered and looked half-mad. The Lossoth suspected it was Firiel. She had the same look as her husband.  
"Do you wish for something to eat?" he asked as she approached.  
"No, no," Firiel muttered. Her hair was in tangles around her. Her face was dirty and pale. Her eyes were wild and haunted.  
"Is your husband Arvedui?"  
"Is he here?" Firiel gasped, joy lighting up her face. "He's here! I knew I'd find him!"  
"I fear not," the Lossoth said. "He…left some time ago." He couldn't bear to tell this distraught woman that her husband was dead.  
Firiel's face fell. "I must go find him," she mumbled. "Here." She handed the baby to the Lossoth. "I can't take care of him. Keep him safe and well. If an elf comes here, give him to him."  
The Lossoth was too stunned to reply and just held the baby, staring at large gray eyes. The baby was nearly as thin as its mother, but thankfully not as bad as its father had been.  
"I must find him," Firiel muttered. "I will find him." She started to stagger off.  
"No! Lady! Don't leave!" the Lossoth exclaimed. "Your husband is dead! He drowned in the Ice Bay! Stay here! You'll die!"  
"I must find him," Firiel repeated.  
"Your child! Think of your child!"  
"He doesn't need me. I must find Arvedui."  
"At least tell me his name!" the Lossoth cried. "Give him something to remember his parents by!"  
"Aranarth," Firiel said. "His name is Aranarth. Chieftain of the Dunedian." And then she stumbled away and was gone.


	57. Sixteen Shrines

Raising a child was not an easy task, and by the end of two weeks the Lossoth was ready to go to the village and find himself a wife just so she could take care of the damn thing. Fortunately, a rider arrived to take the baby off his hands.  
He was tall, with long brown hair, dark eyes, and a fine horse. The Lossoth suspected the horse would make excellent sausages. This rider was also well-fed and strong. Thus, the Lossoth made sure he had his ax with him when he met with the man.  
"I am Elrond Half-Elven, from Imladris," the rider said. "Did a man call Arvedui come by here?"  
"Yes," the Lossoth said. An elf, eh? Strange. "The Shipwright sent a boat for him, but it was crushed by the ice floes. He drowned."  
Elrond closed his eyes. "Alas," he said. "And did a –"  
"Woman named Firiel with a son called Aranarth also stop by? Yes. Firiel wandered off down south, but she left her son."  
"An unlucky couple," Elrond said. "If you would permit me, sir, I would take the child to Imladris, there to be raised by the elves."  
Raised by me, or raised by the elves? the Lossoth thought. The elves. Definitely. "Let me get him," the Lossoth said. He returned moments later with the child, who looked around with wide, excited eyes.   
"Thank you," Elrond said, taking the baby. "Did Arvedui take everything with him on the ship?"  
"Almost," the Lossoth said. "One moment." He went back to the hut and took the ring out of the bone box. That ring gave him the shivers. He wanted it out of his home as quickly as possible.  
"The Ring of Barahir," Elrond whispered as the Lossoth handed him the ring.  
"You can have it," the Lossoth said.   
"Thank you. Did he happen to have two stones – or a large bag – in his possession?"  
The Lossoth nodded. "That he took on the ship."  
Elrond sighed. "This is more than I hoped for but less than I wished," he said. "Thank you, Lossoth. You have been of invaluable help. If you should ever need it, you have the elves' aid."  
The Lossoth couldn't foresee ever needing the elves' help for anything, but he just nodded. The child was gone and he could go back to his life of fishing and adventuring in the snow. That was just fine by him.  
Regrettably, the Lossoth's life was disturbed once more. This time by another rider, but a human one. It was a woman with strangely black skin and hair and eyes.  
"If you're looking for Arvedui, he's dead," the Lossoth said hastily. The fish were starting to migrate to the shallows, and he wanted to get plenty before they left. Besides, he was tired of hearing about Arvedui.  
"Good," the woman said. "How about his wife and kid?"  
"A half-elf named Elrond took the child, and his wife went down south."  
The woman frowned. "Where down south?"  
The Lossoth shrugged. "Somewhere. I don't know."  
"Did Arvedui leave anything behind?"  
"If he did, I gave it to Elrond."  
The woman cursed and looked at the Lossoth like she wanted to kill him. The Lossoth's hand went to his ax, but the woman did not attack.  
"Fine," she spat. "I'll go south then!"  
*  
Khamul sped south, not knowing exactly where she was going. She searched through many ruins of Arthedain, but found nothing except some Dunedain refugees.   
How long Khamul searched for Firiel, she didn't remember. She kept going further and further south though, and then finally the Misty Mountains loomed before her and Khamul knew where she was heading.  
Somehow, through some internal compass, she was approaching the Redhorn Gate again. And Caradhras.  
Well, I'm being guided, Khamul thought with a smile. Maybe it's destiny time.  
The prospect of finally figuring out what Gandalf and the mountain had meant excited Khamul and she hurried to the mountains of Moria.  
Khamul's horse, remembering the way, stubbornly refused to go on the treacherous path up to the Gate. Khamul finally had to dismount and lead it by the reins. And even then it would only move one halting step at a time.  
The valley of Azanulbizar was strangely still, the lake without a single ripple. It seemed to Khamul that everything was holding its breath. It was waiting for something.  
This must be some great destiny, Khamul thought. She looked up toward Caradhras. The mountain was covered in snow and dark clouds gathered about its top. Its neighbor, Bundushathur, was almost half obscured in clouds, but Zirak-zigil was completely clear. The top of Durin's Tower could be seen. It seemed to gleam in the light.  
After almost a mile of leading it, Khamul's horse finally relented and allowed her to ride again. They made better time, but it stopped once more when they reached the Redhorn Gate.  
"Oh come on," Khamul snapped. "Don't do this!"  
Caradhras felt less…sentient, and Khamul was beginning to believe that she had imagined it talking. She felt like a fool for coming to the mountain, wasting valuable time that she could have spent searching for Firiel. But as she thought about turning around, a flash of gold caught her eye.  
A ragged woman – little more than a wraith – stood only a few yards away, just inside the Redhorn Gate.  
"Are you Firiel?" Khamul muttered.  
"Yes," the woman said. Her eyes were hollow. "I am Firiel, daughter of Ondoher, heir of Anarion!"  
"Well, like the rest of the heirs of Numenor, it's time to die." Khamul drew her sword.   
Firiel laughed. It wasn't a sane laugh. It was the laugh of someone who had left behind the world of the sane a long, long time ago.  
"The mountain called me," Firiel said, looking up at Caradhras's cloud-wreathed peak. "And it called you as well."  
"Yes, apparently it's my destiny," Khamul said. "Come on, you stupid horse," she muttered, kicking the beast's sides. It wouldn't budge.  
"The mountain called me," Firiel repeated. "The last heir of Isildur drowned in the Ice Bay. It is fitting that the last heir – the last true heir! – of Anarion should die in ice as well."  
"If you want to die, let me do the honors," Khamul said. Is her kid dead? she wondered. She seems to think so anyway.  
"Isildur and Anarion's lines have died out," Firiel continued. "Their separate lines. But they have been united once more in Aranarth. You can hunt him all you like!" she shrieked, pointing at Khamul. "You'll never catch him! The Valar promised the Line of Luthien would never fail!"  
"The Line of Luthien has a lot more branches than just Elendil's heirs," Khamul pointed out. "And quite a few of them are elven. They've got a much better chance of surviving than your child."  
Firiel laughed again. "I stand here!" she exclaimed. "And it is the beginning of your reign! But when He stands here, it will be the end!" She laughed once more and jumped off the path. Khamul caught a glimpse of her golden hair as she plummeted toward the rocks below.   
The passage rang with Firiel's eerie laughter for some time.   
Well, everyone's dead that I can kill, Khamul thought. Aranarth's in Imladris, and I can't get there. Oh well. I suppose I should go to Dol Guldor now and see what Sauron wants me to do."  
"It has been a long time."  
Khamul's blood froze. The mountain. Caradhras was speaking again.  
Slowly, she looked up and saw that more black clouds were gathering around the mountain's peak. It was the center of a vast storm vortex.  
"What do you want?" she asked. "Was my destiny to see that crazy woman give her final speech and jump to oblivion?"  
"Partly."  
"Can I cross now?" Khamul had no need to cross the pass, although it might get her to Dol Guldor faster.   
"No."  
"Thought not. I'll be on my way then."  
"Many years have passed since Arvedui's death. Yet not so many for you and I. And even for the mortals."  
"How many?" Khamul asked idly, wanting to be away from the mountain.  
"Five."  
"That's nice."  
"It is now the year 1980 of the Third Age of Middle-Earth."  
Khamul was about to say 'that's nice' again, but she remembered Sauron's words. "What is it?" she asked. "What's coming? Is it Morgoth?"  
"The first Dark Lord wishes to return, but he cannot. As Sauron was his loyal apprentice, so will his loyal general return to him."  
"Loyal general?" Khamul whispered. She looked around. Don't be an idiot, she thought. Some horror isn't going to pop out of the rocks.   
But as Khamul watched, she saw the doors of Moria, far below in Azanulbizar, open, and a flood of dwarves stream out.  
"Where are they going?" she muttered.  
"They flee before Morgoth's general."  
"A dwarf? A dwarf was Morgoth's general? Or has a dragon finally decided to do something about Moria?"  
Caradhras didn't answer.  
Khamul sighed and dismounted. She wasn't going to try the Redhorn Gate, but rather she was going to wait until the dwarves were far away to investigate Moria. She didn't want a confrontation now.   
As she looked around for a place to spend some time and not get too wet or cold, Khamul spied little stone shrines. They had been set up near the Gate, presumably to fallen travelers. There were sixteen of them. The first was almost entirely covered in snow and ice. The fifth and twelfth were decorated with wolf fangs. A small carved stone troll sat on the fourteenth. The point of a Haradrim arrow lay on the fifteenth. The last was crowned with white flowers. Strange. One would think that flowers would have wilted in the cold.  
Khamul started to reach for the Haradrim arrow, but something stopped her. It was the mountain. She was sure of it.   
"Fine. I won't touch the damn shrines," Khamul snarled. "They're just monuments to travelers you've killed, after all."  
Caradhras did not speak again and after a while Khamul realized she had been dismissed.  
"Don't think I'm coming back!" Khamul shouted. "I'm not!"  
If a mountain could smile, Caradhras certainly was.


	58. Durin's Bane

She knew what Sauron wanted, and she was curious herself, so Khamul wandered back down the mountain and into the valley. She skirted the border of the lake, which had grown ominous and dark over the years. The gate of Moria was open, and there didn't seem to be anyone guarding it.  
Wary and highly suspicious, Khamul hid her horse outside and sneaked through the dark entrance. It seemed empty and abandoned. But the dwarves wouldn't leave their home, would they?  
Not even when a terror of the First Age had returned?  
Khamul wasn't sure and was suddenly aware that she was sweating. I'm not scared, dammit! she thought. I'm Sauron's lieutenant! I'm worth more to him than Morion! I'm not scared!  
She continued through the darkened halls. Shouldn't there be some torches somewhere? At last Khamul spotted a cherry-red glow in the distance and headed in that direction.  
She was feeling relieved to have located the dwarves at last, and, heedlessly, Khamul walked straight toward the fire. It grew brighter and brighter and larger and larger until Khamul realized it wasn't a normal fire after all.  
"Uh oh," she muttered. She paused to think for a single moment before turning and running away from the vast inferno.  
"You can't run from me, little dwarf," a horrible voice hissed.   
The inferno dimmed, but Khamul didn't look back. She tripped over something and fell flat on her face. It was the corpse of a dwarf. He'd been burned to death.  
"You dwarves need to learn who is the master here," the voice said. It was quite close now. The dwarf body was smoldering in the heat. Khamul felt warm, but it wasn't painful.  
"You want to know who's in charge here?" she snapped, jumping to her feet and drawing her sword. "Me! And I'm not a dwarf!"  
The thing from the inferno was actually a man. Just that. He was a man with red hair and eyes, but he was just a man. Albeit a man with flames licking him and shadows spread out like wings around him, but a man all the same.   
"You're not a dwarf," he said.  
"I am a proud Haradrim!" Khamul exclaimed. "Go back to wherever you came from!"  
"I have spent thousands of years there, and I haven't really liked it. So no, I don't think I will. Who are you and why aren't you a pile of ash?"  
"I'm a Haradrim!"  
"I wasn't aware that humans had developed resistance to flame. Again, what are you? Ah," the man gasped, spotting the ring on her finger. "Sauron. I thought so."  
"What are you?" Khamul asked. "A friend of his?"  
The man chuckled. "Not really," he said. "I knew him in Angband, but we were never anything more than acquaintances."  
"So you're Morgoth's general?" Khamul asked. Caradhras was right after all.  
The man nodded. "My name is Lungorthin," he said. "I'm a balrog. I don't suppose you know what that is, do you?"  
Khamul shook her head.  
"Your education is sorely lacking."  
"I'm so sorry."  
"You remind me of many Easterlings I knew. And ate." Lungorthin grinned. He had very sharp teeth.  
"I'm a –"  
"Yes, yes, a Haradrim. I got that bit. So you're Sauron's servant?"  
"Lieutenant."  
"Servant. I see. So he's the power here, eh?"  
"Yes," Khamul said. "He used to be anyway."  
Lungorthin's eyes glittered. "Got run off, did he? How sad. Is he still around?"  
"Yes. He's hiding out in Dol Guldor."  
"I don't know where that is, but I don't care either. I like these old mines. If you happen to see Sauron soon, tell him I'm back, though I expect he already knows."  
"I think he does," Khamul said.  
"Then I'll expect to see him soon. If you see any dwarves on your way out, send them to me. I'm in the mood for a snack."  
Time to leave, Khamul thought and made for the exit with all haste. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she heard Lungorthin laugh at her as she ran. Better than getting eaten, she thought.


	59. Fall of the Tower of the Moon

"Let's recap, shall we? Arnor is destroyed, but so is Angmar. Arvedui is dead, but Earnur is alive. Oh, and Aranarth is alive. And well. And living in Imladris. This just gets better and better."  
Morion nodded weakly from where he lay on the floor. He was covered in blood and sweat and he prayed the angry Vala wouldn't take out any more of his wrath on him.  
"Aranarth is alive," Melkor hissed. He stopped pacing back and forth and stood in front of his slave's naked body. "He is alive. This damn line will continue forever!"  
"I will kill him," Morion muttered.  
"No! Let him rot. Destroy Earnur. Cripple Gondor."  
Morion nodded. "May I leave?" he asked.  
Melkor considered this and then nodded. The gray mists swirled in Morion's vision and he woke up in his bedroom in an abandoned tower of Gondor, Ringe beside him.  
He didn't want to touch or be touched by anyone, so Morion slipped out of the bed and dressed. He went to the window and looked out over the bleak land of Mordor. It was exactly as he remembered it. Except there was a small rider in the distance, getting closer and closer.  
"About time, Khamul," he muttered. This was a big day for the ringbearers. The orcs that had gradually gathered in the Black Land over time numbered in the thousands. Far more than enough to take a certain city.  
"Where have you been?" Yanta snapped as Khamul walked in about an hour later.  
"Firiel's dead," Khamul reported.  
"And Aranarth is alive," Morion said. His back still hurt from Morgoth's lashes though there were no visible marks.  
"There's some new horror in Moria."  
"Besides dwarves?"  
"It calls itself Lungorthin. It's a balrog."  
Morion nearly choked on the food he was eating. "A balrog?" he gasped.  
Khamul nodded, frowning. "Is that a problem?"  
"There's a balrog in Moria?"  
"Yes."  
Great. Just what he needed. One more complication. Or perhaps it could be a benefit. Doubtful though. The balrog and Sauron would have to come to an accord about who would rule Middle-Earth. They were both Maia after all.  
"Why is there an army outside?" Khamul asked. "I thought we'd been driven from the north and had slunk into hiding to lick our wounds."  
"Not quite," Morion said. "We're going to capture Minas Ithil. Again."  
"Are we going to hold it this time?"  
"Yes."  
"Good. That city belongs to us anyway."  
The orcs poured down the mountain passes. The trolls lay siege to the great gates. Minas Ithil foundered in a sea of bodies. By the time this siege was over, the Tower of the Moon was going to be empty. And if it wasn't, then the orcs would soon take care of that.  
"I remember thinking how beautiful the city was," Morion said as he and Khamul watched the battle. "I remember feeling sorry for myself. I remember watching this siege and praying that Isildur would escape."  
"How do you feel now?" Khamul asked.  
"I want them all to die."  
Khamul snorted. "Me, too," she said. "I felt that way from the start though."  
Morion looked at Khamul. She was beautiful, in a cold, proud, cruel way. She had to be in the right light though. Otherwise she just looked cold, proud, and cruel.  
"Ringe said something to me," he said. Probably shouldn't've used his name, he thought.   
"What?" Khamul snapped, scowling. "Whatever it was, it was a lie."  
So it wasn't. "He said you loved me," Morion said.   
"He was lying. I don't give a damn about you."  
This was not the way to get Khamul to admit her feelings for him. What an idiot I am, Morion thought. I'm going about this completely the wrong way. And now I've screwed things up for good.   
"I'm sorry for any pain I've caused you," he said.  
"You haven't caused me any."  
"That's good then," Morion said. He watched as the trolls hammered on the gate. The gate appeared to be standing its ground. "This is going to take a while."


	60. The First Challenge

"Prince?" Mardil asked, poking his head into the yard where Earnur trained.  
"What is it, Mardil?" Earnur asked.  
"I have several things to report."  
"All right. Let's hear them."  
"First, Minas Ithil…er…Minas Morgul, continues to spread a plague of small white flowers."  
"Fascinating."  
"Apparently they're quite deadly if ingested."  
"I would suspect nothing less."  
"Second, the city's merchant guilds have at last decided to adopt the name of 'Minas Tirith' for our city. This, of course, comes several decades after your honored father renamed it."  
"Yes, yes, it's already been called that for a while. It's not news, Mardil. Give me news."  
"Ah, last. Your father has disappeared and cannot be found."  
Earnur heaved a sigh. "About time," he muttered.  
"Excuse me, sir?"  
"Sire will do, Mardil. Father's gone to the Houses of the Dead."  
"Oh!"  
"I'll go get the crown. Organize a coronation, will you? Nothing fancy."  
"Yes, sir…er…sire!"  
Bumbling idiot, Earnur thought as he made his way through the palace toward Rath Dinen. Father always warned he was going to sneak off and die like this. The bastard.  
Sure enough, when Earnur opened the door to the Hallows, there was Earnil II, lying on a stone slab, quite dead.  
"You could've told me," Earnur muttered. The crown lay on his chest. Earnil looked relaxed, at peace, but there was a vigilance about him. As if he was guarding the crown and had a feeling he would be doing it for quite some time.  
"Well, that's where you're wrong," Earnur said, picking up the crown and twirling it in his hands. He was king now. He was king and he would drive the scourge of the Nazgul from Minas Ithil.  
When he returned to the castle, the place was in an uproar. Servants hurried to and fro, stringing up garlands, laying out food, cleaning the place.  
"I said nothing fancy," Earnur told Mardil when he found the steward at the center of the chaos.  
"It's a coronation," Mardil said.  
"And so will my son's be!"  
"If you ever marry."  
"I'll get to it, I'll get to it. What's in your hand?"  
"Hm? Oh, a letter. Someone gave it to me. I can't recall who."  
Seeing his name on it, Earnur snatched it from the steward and tore it open. As he read it, a frown developed on his face. He grew so engrossed in the letter that the crown started to slip from his grasp. Mardil made a diving leap and saved the crown from the ignominious fate of landing on the floor.  
"Is there something wrong, sire?" he asked as he staggered to his feet.  
"It's from the Witch-King," Earnur said.  
"Sire?" Mardil paled.  
"He's challenging me to a duel. He accuses me of cowardice during the Battle of Fornost. Agh! Mardil! This challenge cannot go unanswered! Have my horse saddled! I ride forth to Minas Morgul at once! Postpone the coronation."  
"Sire, I strongly caution against this," Mardil said. "No doubt this is either a joke, or if it isn't, it is an attempt by the Witch-King to slay you and end the line of Anarion."  
"A challenge cannot go unanswered!"  
"Please, wait until after your coronation then," Mardil pleaded.   
Earnur sighed. "Very well," he said. He gave the letter a glare of fury, but then threw it into a nearby fire. "It will not go unanswered though," he said. "One day I shall make up for my horse's foolishness."  
"Yes, sire," Mardil said, relieved to have avoided the first catastrophe of Earnur's reign.  
*  
"I thought it was a very good letter," Ancalime said. She was pleased to be back in a proper castle. Carn Dum was simply too much like a fortress to be to her liking.  
"It didn't do the job though," Morion said. He sighed. "I'll wait a few years and try again. After the difficulties of kingship, Earnur'll want to fight someone."  
"Do you know that this is the first time in…" Ancalime quickly did some figuring in her head, "almost a decade that we've had a proper talk?"  
"Really?"  
"Yes. I think it might be more than that, actually. You spend an awful lot of time with Ringe," Ancalime said suspiciously. She, being rather blind to anything she didn't want to see, hadn't noticed Morion's relationship with the eighth ringbearer.  
"We're friends," Morion said.  
"We used to be good friends too," Ancalime said. "And then came this business with the rings. You'd think being immortal would mean we'd have more chances to chat."  
"Yes, you'd think that."  
"You've been so busy though."  
"I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk after Sauron takes over the world."  
Ancalime frowned. "You spend a lot of time with Ringe."  
Oh Valar. She was noticing. Morion wasn't sure how to handle this. "He's a good spy," he said.  
"He's not as good as Aica. She knows everything!"  
"So does Sauron," Morion said. He would never forget that awful gleam in Sauron's eye when he'd presented him with the palantir of Minas Ithil. Now he can spy on us whenever he wants to, Morion thought.   
The palantir had been found by Khamul, and then had to be wrestled away from her. Morion hadn't seen a lot of the Haradrim after that. She was resentful of the fact that Morion had turned over the palantir to Sauron, but what could he do? Sauron was keeping Morgoth in check, and if he'd withheld the palantir, there was no telling what might've happened.  
"But Ringe isn't Sauron. Why do you spend so much time with him? You know, one morning, I saw the pair of you leave his bedroom together. Why was that?"  
Think fast, Morion told himself. "I…needed to talk to him about something."  
"Oh. Okay," Ancalime said. She looked cheered, but the frown crept back quickly. "You aren't…" She began, but wasn't sure how to finish it. "You aren't… You two… You aren't…are you?"  
All right. Might as well tell her. "Ringe and I are lovers," he said.   
Ancalime's eyes went very, very wide. "What?" she whispered.  
"We're lovers. I don't quite think we're in love, but we enjoy each other. There. That's what's going on."  
"Oh," Ancalime said. "I think I can understand why Aica's been so mad lately."  
Aica's always mad. She's a mad, violent person. "Yes, I don't think she approves."  
"I don't know if I do either. I mean, you were supposed to marry some nice Numenorean girl, but then Numenor sank. And then you became the Witch-King and all these horrible things started happening."  
"It's a lot to take in, I know."  
"I'm a very modern person," Ancalime said. "So I don't mind the principle, but I just…oh my."  
"I have some work that I need to get done," Morion said. "The army doesn't do its own paperwork."  
"I see," Ancalime said. She stood up and wandered off with a slightly dazed expression.  
That'll wear off eventually, Morion thought. She'll probably forget by tomorrow. Ancalime never was a bright one.  
"What'd Earnur say about the challenge?" Khamul asked as she walked in.  
"Ah, you've decided to grace me with your presence," Morion said.   
"Shut up. What'd the prince say?"  
"King. And seeing as I have received neither answer nor a bunch of soldiers at the gate, I think he declined."  
Khamul scowled. "We have to get to him before he has kids."  
"He doesn't even have a wife. I don't think he's interested."  
"Of course he is. Maybe we should just assassinate him. Aica could do that."  
"No. I'm going to challenge him again in a few years. That should work."  
"And if it doesn't?"  
"Then I'll think about assassination. However, I want to avoid overt bloodshed. I think a nice, quick disappearance into Minas Morgul is just what we want."  
"And then we can take Minas Anor…Tirith, or whatever they're calling it now."  
"No," Morion said patiently. How many more times did he have to explain this to her? "We are not going to take the city. Not yet. Even without their king they are still very strong. And so are we. So we're at a stalemate."  
"What happens when Earnur's dead then?" Khamul asked.  
"The line of kings will have ended in both the north and the south and everyone will be very depressed."  
"Aranarth's still alive though."  
"Yes, I know," Morion said. I'm reminded very strongly of it every night. "And because you've developed such a fanatical obsession with killing each and every heir of Isildur, I think you should go back north and finish them off. Once Earnur's dead."  
"Fine," Khamul muttered. "Sounds all right by me."  
"Good."  
"What was Ancalime talking to you about anyway?"  
"How we don't talk enough," Morion said. "And also some things about Ringe."  
"Finally figured it out, has she?"  
"Yes."  
Khamul chuckled under her breath.   
"You don't approve, do you?"  
"I don't care."  
"You don't have an opinion on it?"  
"No."  
"Or anything for that matter?"  
"I don't care," Khamul said. I've always thought you were handsome, she thought. You're intelligent, too, and skilled. You're too good for that sewer rat! He doesn't deserve you!   
"Oh, well, glad that's settled," Morion said. "I think there's still a nest of former citizens hiding out in the sewers of the city. Take care of that, would you?"  
Khamul nodded grimly and went off to find Aica. The palantir would tell her where the dead men were hiding.


	61. The Broken Line

"There's another case for you to hear, sire," Mardil said. Earnur had never noticed it until now, but the steward had this incredibly annoying way of walking. It was like he was bobbing along.  
"I'm tired of hearing these stupid peasants and their stupid problems," Earnur snapped. "I want to get up and do something. I want to fight something."  
"Sire…"  
"Oh shut up."  
Mardil nodded with a sigh. "Oh, there's a message for you, sire. I didn't notice I had one. Funny, isn't it?"  
Earnur just rolled his eyes. "Give it to me."   
"I don't know who it's from, sire. Probably from Ithilien. The lord there is very talkative."  
Earnur brightened up when he read the letter. "The Witch-King is challenging me once more!" he exclaimed.  
"Sire!"  
"Get my horse saddled! I'm going!"  
"Sire! I must protest!"  
"Shut up, Mardil! I need to do something!" Earnur was off his throne in a second and was almost halfway across the room.  
"But…but…the Witch-King will kill you!"  
"Have you no faith in your ruler?" Earnur chastised him. "I am the greatest warrior Gondor has ever seen. I'll destroy that pathetic wraith and reclaim Minas Ithil!"  
"Just by yourself?" Mardil asked.  
"If I have to, yes."  
Mardil looked doubtful.  
"I go alone to Minas Morgul!"  
"Sire…"  
"Shut up, Mardil!"  
Mardil followed Earnur through the palace, trying to get him to reconsider, but each time he opened his mouth it was silenced with a 'shut up, Mardil'.  
"Sire, this is most unwise!" he exclaimed as Earnur leapt onto his horse.   
"I must reclaim my honor, Mardil!"  
"At least return the crown to the Hallows!"  
Earnur sighed and dismounted. "Very well. As a favor to you, Mardil." He went into the Hallows and placed the crown gently upon Earnil's breast. The dead man still looked like he was an ancient guard.   
"I beg of you, don't go," Mardil pleaded as Earnur walked out of the Hallows.  
"I must."  
"At least take a wife before you go! Have a child! Leave an heir!"  
"No. I go at once."  
"If you die, the line of Anarion will be ended!"  
"Then that's just too bad," Earnur said. He mounted his horse. "Goodbye, Mardil. I will return triumphant in perhaps a month."  
A month passed. Then another. Then another. Mardil spent the rest of his life sitting in the small throne of the stewards next to the great dais of the king. He ruled, and his son did after him, and his son after him. And always, the people of Gondor wondered what had happened to their king.  
*  
The white flowers increased on the Osgiliath-side of the Anduin until the countryside was swarming with them. When Earnur passed into Morgul Vale, the sides of the valley were covered with them. Though they looked pretty, they smelled like rotten flesh.   
How beautiful this place once was, Earnur thought. Ah, but it will be again. As soon as I've destroyed the Witch-King.  
He grimaced when he saw Minas Ithil. The once-fair city was now a sickly pale green. It shone in the gloom, giving off a ghastly light.   
Earnur rode across a narrow bridge that led to the city. Hideous statues guarded the bridge and they seemed to leer at him as he passed by.  
Tricks and shadow-plays, he thought. Nothing substantial.  
The great gates of Minas Morgul swung to admit him and Earnur rode in. The gates closed soft as a whisper behind him, and he didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the figure in the center of the courtyard before him.  
He was dressed in plain black. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and his skin was unnaturally pale. He looked ill.  
"I am Earnur, king of Gondor," Earnur said. "Who are you?"  
"I am the Witch-King," the man said. "If you would dismount. I'd prefer to fight on foot."  
Suspecting trickery, Earnur nontheless dismounted. He liked fighting on the ground as well.  
Around the courtyard were eight more Men and a number of orcs. The other Nazgul, Earnur thought. Seven women, surprisingly.   
"Shall we begin?" the Witch-King asked, drawing his sword.  
"I will avenge the trouble you have caused my people!" Earnur snarled, drawing his own sword.  
Earnur struck the first blow, which the Witch-King easily parried. Neither of them ever managed to get first blood, but eventually Earnur began to tire. He started to make mistakes. The Witch-King's sword missed his head by an inch.  
And then the Witch-King made a mistake.  
"Elendil!" Earnur screamed, thrusting his sword into the wraith's chest.  
There was the noise of steel sliding through muscle and bone. The sword came out the other side.  
"Earnur," the Witch-King whispered as their bodies came together, as intimate as lovers. "I am a wraith."  
There was a sudden, horrible sensation in Earnur's gut. Something sharp went through him and he gasped. His vision wavered and started dimming about the edges.  
The Witch-King pulled himself off Earnur's sword and watched as the king of Gondor fell onto the ground.  
There was utter quiet until Earnur stopped breathing.   
"Are you all right?" Ringe asked, walking over to Morion.  
"I'm fine. It wasn't magical," Morion said. He looked at Earnur with pity. "The last king of Gondor is dead."  
"Araphant was right," Yanta said. "Remember what he said?" she asked Metima, who nodded.   
"When one kingdoms falls, the other won't be far behind," her friend replied.  
"Gondor hasn't fallen yet," Morion said. "Only its king has."  
"The line of Anarion has ended," Ceure said sadly.  
"Nope," Khamul muttered. "It lives on in Aranarth."  
Morion looked up at Khamul. He smiled. "Take care of that, will you?" he asked.  
Khamul smiled back. "Count on it."


	62. The Last Crowned With Flowers

Some ten years or so later, Gandalf the Grey made his first appearance in the great histories of the world by nosing around Dol Guldor and scaring off Sauron. With the flight of the Dark Lord and the stalemate between Minas Tirith, led by its ruling house of stewards, and Minas Morgul, a long period of time known as the Watchful Peace began. Still, curiously, in the north, as those Dunedain who had survived the fall of Arthedain regrouped as the Rangers of the North, they noticed a dark shadow haunting them. They were used to orcs and wildmen, but this new horror was strong, cunning and intelligent. It spilled much blood of Numenor but never seemed satisfied with itself. It was always looking for the ultimate prize, the head of the last heir of Isildur.  
And far away above the abandoned mines of Moria where shadow and flame stalked the empty halls, Caradhras loomed tall, seeming taller than its higher neighbors. It had the air of one who was waiting. Elves claimed that it was waiting for the vanquisher of the Nameless Horror beneath it. Dwarves said it was waiting for the return of Sauron. Men said it was a damn cruel mountain and was waiting for more travelers to slaughter.  
Strangely enough, the Men were closest.  
Sixteen small shrines, no taller than a foot, lined the way to the Redhorn Gate. Sixteen shrines, the last crowned with flowers.  
One by one the shrines collapsed. The first crumbled under the weight of ice and snow. Years later, the second followed it. And then the third went.   
Ten small shrines, no taller than a foot, lined the way to the Redhorn Gate. Ten shrines, the last crowned with flowers.


End file.
